


i hear the walls repeating

by Makari Crow (Beanna)



Series: Thy word is a lamp [7]
Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M, Slow Burn, appearances by the Chaldea ensemble esp. Round Table, more emotions than one man has room for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:20:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 69,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29711538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beanna/pseuds/Makari%20Crow
Summary: or, Merlin vs the Knights of the Round Table.So every bluff Merlin made has been called; he's stuck in a place with people who keep wanting to havefeelingsin his general vicinity; and the worst part is that it might not actually be that bad?No. The worst part is that now there are things he can't conceal any more, among them himself.
Relationships: Leonardo da Vinci | Caster & Merlin | Caster, Romani Archaman/Merlin | Caster
Series: Thy word is a lamp [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1486823
Comments: 40
Kudos: 88





	1. there was a man both good and true

**Author's Note:**

  * For [purplejabberwock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplejabberwock/gifts).



> yooooooooooo so it's been a hot minute! longer than I meant it to be! Who knew pandemics weren't amazeballs for writing in. 
> 
> Per usual, a couple of quick things before we get into it. 
> 
> -Content warnings - this one doesn't need a lot, but just take grief and mentions of death and loss and emotional trauma as blanket warnings. Nothing else explicit.
> 
> -Pur and I aren't keeping up with what's going on in the Japanese server - please mind spoilers in the comments if you are, we'd like to experience it as fresh as possible when it gets to us.
> 
> -I play a bit fast and loose with Fate/ canon - I'm doing my best, but there are going to be inconsistencies and we're all just going to have to live with it. The spirit of the thing, I think, matters most. 
> 
> That's about it! Have fun, stay safe, and enjoy.

> — _I hear the walls repeating_  
>  the falling of my feet and it sounds like drumming  
>  **and I am not alone** —

'Wait for Me,' _Hadestown_

Merlin really doesn’t know how long he flops on the tower floor feeling sorry for himself. No— not even sorry for himself, really. Just guilty, and distant, and caught in the choices he can’t make.

He’s aware, vaguely, that Da Vinci has done something _else_ clever with the computer and the dream-touched network connection between them. He’s been alerted to this fact by the way the flower starts talking: a computerized voice, to be sure, but nevertheless Romani’s words. _I’d like to talk to you_ , he says, some sincere emotion getting through even under the robotic, tuneless voice. _Please respond_. 

At this point Merlin just sort of waves his hand vaguely in the direction of the flower he’s left open, as if this will help. It doesn’t, really; but at least Da Vinci hasn’t made the damned thing repeat itself over and over. 

Having actual requests from Romani — multiple! Followed up on! Starting to sound a little sad! — should in all respects make Merlin... something. More likely to act, to respond to someone looking _for him_. Instead the feeling of being caught between equally difficult choices intensifies. He isn’t going to be whatever Romani thinks he wants and is looking for, and even if he _is_ there’s the issue of mortality and change to contend with. Answer, and pick up hope only to inevitably watch everything fall down and lose what precious little has been gained; ignore, cut ties, and at least the break won’t give him _so_ much hope that it hurts. 

Both options make a weight in his heart, even if it’s for different reasons. 

He’s genuinely not sure how long it is later that Romani tries again. _I’m not angry_ filters through Merlin’s awareness, with a followup of _please reply_. 

What would he _say_? Every time Merlin tries to think about that direction, about how he’d approach the conversation if he did answer, fear sets in before anything else. There’s nothing he _could_ say that would be the right thing — he doesn’t even know what _is_ the right thing in this context, with these terrible wanting roots grown deep around his heart. 

Maybe that’s the trouble. He can’t picture a future where there’s any kind of satiation for that yearning, because he knows just how foolish he is, and because— well, it’s not _for_ him, is it? He’s not the settling-down type. Two kids, an observatory picket fence, and the averted end of the world for a back yard. Hah. Right. Merlin doesn’t _fit_ there.

Merlin doesn’t answer his messages. He does bother to get up, but only to toss this flower out the window as well. 

Some time later, the computerized voice drifts up to him in staticky stereo: _“Merlin,_ _if you don't answer by 8pm Chaldean time I’m summoning you here forcibly.”_

At that Merlin has to laugh, wild and perhaps more incredulous than actually _humorous_. How does Romani think he’s going to pull _that_ one off? More to the point, if he actually _does_ , then— then it’ll solve all the problems for Merlin _anyway_. Actually, it’s kind of comforting, the concept of the options being taken completely out of his hands like this. Resigned, determined only to call Romani’s bluff, Merlin does what he’s been doing about his problems since time immemorial:

Nothing at all, save running away.

All the same...

All the same, he still isn’t really _expecting_ it when the walls of his tower shiver. There’s a tone like a struck bell, one that goes on and on and on instead of dying out naturally, and it reverberates through stone and cloth and flower and bone, jarring even the deepest parts of Merlin where the dream-rose has made its determined home.

And it occurs to Merlin: this is the weight of power that calls for him. He tilts his chin up, as much challenge as listening to the sound. Let him try, then. 

_Myrddin Wyllt_ sinks through him like a fishing hook, but that’s fine, that’s just one facet of him. Then _Merlin Ambrosius_ joins it, twin sunk harpoons to outline the facets of him. The madman he had been, when war and death and loss swallowed everything else whole; the prophet still written of, the one who had seen the dragons that fought each other fit to set the earth twisting. Merlin cannot deny either of those, not really, though he might argue with Romani’s choice of epithets. 

Even _Emrys_ isn’t too far unknown. More than a few of the writers whose work Merlin politely steps around have popularized the name his mother gave him. “I was never a _prince_ ,” he says, giving in to the temptation to argue with the forms of magic currently fitting inescapable frames around his soul. “Bastard son of a princess doesn’t get put in the line of succession, are you _kidding_ me, you have to know how gavelkind works—”

The magic doesn’t _care_. Merlin winces as the weight of it settles over his shoulders and _pulls_. The force of three true names alone nearly lifts him off the ground — in some show of stubborn defiance he presses his hands to the stone, curls his fingers as best he can into the bare spaces in the stonework. You can’t summon him with an epithet that isn’t even _right_ , come on, and anyway you’ve only hit the legend of the mage and the man — if he really leans into the incubus part, annoying as it might be, he can probably still evade this. 

Merlin takes a breath, heavy and hard underneath the force of _submit submit submit_ hammering at him like forge-blows. Thinks of desire, of all the hungers a human has, all the feasts that come from the simple _satiation of desire_. This can be a shield—

_Submit, Kokabiel, demon of lust_.

He has the barest space of time to feel _alarm_ before that name crashes over him, too, this one swamping and subsuming even as it strikes a deep-buried chord. Even Merlin himself barely knows this name — has never used it, spoken it aloud but once just to hear the sound of it, when he became aware that it was there, hanging off his soul like a particularly scratchy clothing tag, the one thing actually given him by his father besides life. How does Romani even know that name exists to call it? 

Far, far too late to do him any good, Merlin remembers: he is attempting to resist the call of the _master of demons_.

His fingers pry loose from the stone.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Merlin says aloud, with feeling.

He is forcibly removed from the tower of Avalon.

At speed he _slams_ into Chaldea. The air that presses around him has a different scent to it, something metallic and recirculated hitting the back of his throat as he gasps for the first breath of the different place. Less atmospheric magic, less weight. Avalon— Merlin can still _feel_ it, distantly, hooked into his soul like brambles right next to the rose, but it doesn’t _have_ him. 

That realization alone sets him off-balance, stumbling and falling to his knees. He finds sleek metal under his hands as he catches himself there, drags in breath after breath. He barely dares look up. In the corners of his fields of vision— ah, yep, that’s Ritsuka and Mash, great. Someone else Merlin doesn’t immediately recognize by the hem of her cloak. And a _lot_ of gold armor—

Merlin grimaces as something comes _vividly_ back to his memory. _I expect that the next time I see you shall be on your knees_ , Gilgamesh had said. For a moment he thinks that might be the worst part of this whole thing, that the smug King of Heroes is not only witnessing this but was _right_ about his previous assessment...

Then he raises his head just enough to see the rose in Romani’s hand, and rapidly revises that estimate. No running now, huh. The choice has been made for him: he’s here until Romani realizes Merlin will make a terrible friend and slash or romantic partner, probably. 

He lifts himself to his feet, slow and measured as he can, gathering his robe about him, and looks at Romani; and there is some not insignificant part of him that immediately recognizes _king_. Romani stands straight and tall, the height of him clearly evident now that he isn’t trying to appear smaller than he actually is. White hair past his shoulders, highlighted with copper — somewhere between the two versions of him that had come before. 

Gold eyes, with only the barest implication of green in this light. Merlin looks away as soon as he meets those, just enough to the side that it isn’t _direct_. The weight is uncomfortable. 

There’s a form to this sort of thing: the Servant is called, inquires to the identity of the one who has called, but Merlin really doesn’t feel like talking a lot right now. Half-ritual words die in his throat and he just _stands_ there, making bets with himself about what’s going to happen first. He should maybe brace himself for a teenaged girl to the middle, or murder-squirrel to the face...

But the room is still, only broken by breath and the faint underlying whir of machinery that threads through Chaldea at large. Romani is the first one to break that solemn quiet, and what _he_ has to say is: “We need to talk.”

With that particular death-knell the intervening chill breaks to motion, and Merlin blows out a low whistle, something perfectly incredulous. “Sure know how to make a guy feel welcome around here,” he says, links his hands together behind his back and rocks forward and back, from toe to heel. 

Romani adjusts the rose in his hand until the stem coils around his wrist and the bloom sits at the back of his hand, rather than his palm. The motion draws Merlin’s eye; he thinks he sees blood. Naturally, since this is the one he made for blood sampling purposes, it’s drawn to such a thing, but... it’s lasted much longer than he ever expected it to. And he certainly didn’t expect Romani to take a liking to it. It probably helped Romani secure him, too. Little traitor. “If you had answered me when I asked,” Romani says, all calm and levelly, “this would be a different welcome.”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Ritsuka puts in helpfully from the sidelines. Merlin glances her way specifically to scrunch up his face in disapproval at her and completely ruin any impression of dignity he might be giving off. In turn she sticks out her tongue at him and waggles her fingers in a cheerful hello of a greeting. 

Oh, well. At least Merlin knows Chaldea has vents big enough for full-sized people to hide in. It might be a _little_ more difficult for him, not nearly so slight as most of the Hassans, but he can pull it off with a little clairvoyance. Just because they _have_ him doesn’t mean they’re going to be able to find him to be friends with him...

“Somewhere more private,” Romani adds softly, and he curls his fingers in a beckoning gesture. Merlin can _feel_ the motion pluck at something deeper — the bond that now stretches between them, more than something crafted by dreams and blood and history, now slotted into the firm archetype of servant and _master_. 

Hmmm, awkward. Maybe he can pick on Romani’s ethics to get him to dismiss Merlin...

Kind of a moot point at the moment. He’ll just have to get through this delightful private conversation as obnoxiously and off-puttingly as possible. Merlin shrugs lightly, and wiggles his fingers back at Ritsuka in cheery farewell. “Seeya~”

He does not specify when. 

Following Romani back to his room is very tangibly the calm before _some_ kind of storm, though Merlin can’t quite figure out what kind. Romani had said, somewhere in the storm of messages Merlin had ignored, that he wasn’t angry. At least, not about the Magi*Mari thing. It’s possible, Merlin concludes, that Romani is now angry about _other_ things. He’ll find out, excitingly, in the very near future. He laces his fingers together behind his head, does as much carefree sauntering as he can fit in his body, and pretends he’s not going, one way or another, to his doom.

Again: something he’s got plenty of practice with.

Fortunately or unfortunately, since he’s trailing a few paces behind Romani, he has _exquisite_ awareness of how well these clothes fit him. Which, rude. Someone’s been tailoring their fingers off to make something this simple outline Romani’s frame so nicely. The distraction of broad shoulders and neatly outlined ass — not covered by a cloak of hair, which is a great selling point for the haircut — in fact keep Merlin _so_ engrossed that he nearly walks a step too far when Romani stops to palm open his door.

Nearly. No delightful comedy of physical error to spark desire. Instead Merlin waits for the door, and follows Romani inside. The door slides shut behind with a remarkable note of finality.

He spends a little time looking around the room so as to put off the inevitable, but it’s not like he can pretend he’s never seen it at all. A kotatsu is a kotatsu, a bed is a bed. There’s a vase of water on the desk against the wall, probably where the rose has been living, but that’s approximately the size of the changes. Notably, Merlin _doesn’t_ see Cath Palug hiding out, which he pretty much appreciates. One issue at a time is great, thanks. 

“I want to know why you didn’t answer me,” Romani says from somewhere behind him. Merlin pivots on the spot and finds that Romani has lingered near the door, effectively blocking it — like he needs to prevent Merlin from escaping — well, okay, he’s not far wrong. 

But now, see, Merlin has to _answer_ , and that’s the difficult part. He chews on the inside of his cheek and tries to think, mostly in vain. What’s his best chance here, against that firm look, against the ache in his chest of the clinging rose that wants and wants and wants? 

The finest blend of obnoxious lies and annoying truths he can muster, apparently. “Didn’t want to,” Merlin says with a shrug, and tucks his hands into the opposing sleeves to prevent himself from doing anything stupidly telltale with _those_. “You said you weren’t angry with me, so hey, problem solved, right?” 

Romani’s expression flattens. “I’m not angry with you for pretending to be Magi*Mari,” he clarifies. “Do you really think that’s all there is to talk about?” 

_Of course_ is on the tip of Merlin’s tongue, easy dismissal of anything like feelings. It turns out not to be so easy, as he can’t quite make the lie come out. He swears he used to be a better liar than this. 

Maybe it’s just that it _matters_ , and he’s always choked when something really _matters_. 

After a few moments of Merlin fumbling with himself for an answer that’ll head off this train of conversation, Romani just nods, thoughtful and measured. “I see,” he says.

Merlin’s all too afraid that he _does_. He takes a careful breath and pastes on the best bright smile he has, the one that even turns up the corners of his eyes if he forces it into place hard enough. “Sure, sure,” he says, with all the verbal intonation of a headpat. “Anyway, you’ve got me here, right? You can say whatever you wanted to say and have done.” 

“If it was just talking _at_ you, I wouldn’t have had to call you here,” Romani says, very pointedly. There might be some heat in his cheeks, but it’s harder to tell from this distance than it was when he was a burning-fair redhead. “Merlin—”

“That’s me,” Merlin agrees.

Romani’s eyes narrow faintly. “Da Vinci told me, and _showed me_ , everything you did.”

“Uh,” Merlin says intelligently, and closes his mouth on it. _Showed_ him. Showed him what? —oh, he didn’t think. He should have thought there would be surveillance of the command room while he spent his time there. Da Vinci showed Romani those recordings, okay. Merlin thinks back with his heart an alarmed drumbeat under his ribs. He can’t recall anything _too_ telling... well, except vanishing himself when the knights showed up, but he’ll make that sacrifice for keeping the other parts firmly secret to himself. Except...

The IM logs. Merlin’s been a _little_ less cautious in those, as Da Vinci got more and more under his skin. She wouldn’t have shared those, would she? … _would_ she?

Uh-oh.

“Yes.” Romani’s confirmation doesn’t specify what all he’s seen, annoyingly. He just nods and keeps going. “I wanted to know why. You went to a lot of trouble to bring me back. I thought you didn’t care about people, so you can understand why that’s a bit confusing.” 

“Ahhhh,” Merlin says sagely. Hidden in his overlapping sleeves still, his fingers twist up in each other with the urge to fidget, and he winds up shifting from foot to foot instead. “If Da Vinci showed you _everything_ , shouldn’t you have the answer to that?” A quick fishing hook to see if Romani got the logs. After all, he’s sure he told her. Narrative irritation. Maybe, if that, a vague sense of a debt...

Certainly nothing about a man who has never in his life managed to be truly _free_. Nope. 

“I’d like to hear it from you, all the same.” Romani is not smiling about this. It makes Merlin’s plastered-on smile feel all the more fake by comparison.

Merlin doubles down, grins until his cheeks hurt. “What, you dragged me all the way here for _that_? There’s gotta be better uses for all that power. It’s like I told Da Vinci, it was just stupid. I don’t really care about humans _specifically_ , but heroic sacrifices really aren’t in vogue any more, you know. Narrative trends are shifting away from that, and do you know how many tragedies I’ve watched? It’s _boring_.” 

He feels less and less sincere the more he goes on, as Romani watches him. Just watches, with that level not-quite-stern gaze. The weight of a king’s observation is working very hard to cut through Merlin, despite his best efforts. 

“Boring,” Romani repeats carefully. His head is tilted at a slight angle, one Merlin resents for making the line of his neck so appealing and for sharpening the golden weight of his eyes. “Is that truly all it was?”

_Good_ , he’s on the right track. Merlin leaps on that. “I get bored,” he says, finally unlinking his hands to spread them wide in a loose-limbed shrug. “Humans are a good story, but that’s really all it is. I’m just not equipped to care the same way, you know? Cambion, and all. Actually, maybe you can help me explain to Ritsuka and Da Vinci, they keep wanting to be friends but I swear I’ve told them a hundred times...”

“Merlin,” Romani says, effectively cutting Merlin’s words off; and, a little more intently, “ _Kokabiel_.”

Merlin twitches, a full-body clench of a thing that shivers him from stem to stern for a moment. “Where did you even _learn_ that name?” he demands, trying to make his shoulders go down from around his ears. “Even _I_ didn’t know that name for— for years. And my own father gave it to me.” And mostly, honestly, he strives to _forget it even exists_. It’s a dumb name. He doesn’t like it, even and especially when it plucks at strings deep in his soul. 

...He doesn’t like the look on Romani’s face. That is— it’s a knowing look, one with a faint half-curve of a smile only barely escaping some iron control. Attractive under the right circumstances, yes. Deeply concerning under the current circumstances, also yes. 

“I know it the same way I know you’re lying to me,” Romani says. His air of tranquil calm is the worst part about it — like he’s not even surprised or even a little bit worried, but that what’s happening is just as expected. “For years I held the seventy-two within me, and each one of them I knew by name, by interest, by the particular dominion they each held, secrets and hidden things among them. Yours is a name that was written, once, among my books and keys.”

Ah. 

Master of demons. Right. Merlin can’t believe he’s forgotten that _twice in one day_. This whole thing is, honestly, a new low for him. “...right,” he says, having no other answer to give to _that_. “Great. ‘Merlin’ is fine, thanks.”

“Merlin,” Romani says obligingly. “I’m well aware that demons are capable of emotion.” 

“I never said they _weren’t_ ,” Merlin tries. Maybe this will still work. Romani’s used to _demons_ , not weird half-demons, right? Right? “They’re just, you know, different. It’s not the same sort of investment you’d recognize a human as having...”

Ah. No, that _isn’t_ working, judging by the way Romani is shaking his head. “It’s greater,” he says. “If anything, were your feelings truly as influenced by your demonic blood as you claim, you would obsess over humanity and their desires, and barely be able to leave them alone. Instead you’ve gone to every length to hide.”

Merlin actually doesn’t know enough about demons to argue this with _King Solomon_. He glances from one side to the other without really meaning to, like there’ll be some convenient out presenting itself helpfully within his sight. There isn’t anything of the sort. Romani’s room suddenly feels _huge_ around him, and yet far too small to escape all at once. 

“So I am asking,” Romani goes on, with a sort of terrible gentleness underlying his implacability. “Why did you save me, Merlin, and why then hide from me?”

His heart beats rabbit-quick, somewhere in the vicinity of his throat. Once more Merlin is reminded of the squeeze of roots, the prick of thorns, of the rose that he sunk into his chest in a fit of pique and can’t seem to pull out. He couldn’t destroy it, when he thought he should. Couldn’t let it hide in the depths of his subconscious, all childish possessiveness about the whole thing. 

Couldn’t sacrifice whatever the sheep represents, either. He knows it wants something, or is something, and he’s well aware it’s related to this _somehow—_ but it’s a part of him he doesn’t even recognize any more. 

And yet, still can’t seem to let go of. 

At the end of the day he’s still too much the masochist, isn’t he? Too _hopeful_ to really stop himself from hanging on to something, even if it’s going to hurt worse down the line because of it. 

As if it might turn out this time. 

“I saved you because I wanted to,” Merlin says, which is not a lie. It isn’t really the truth, either, but it’s a sight closer than anything else that’s gotten out of his mouth today. He realizes, belatedly, that one of his hands has crept up to rub at his sternum, like he can press the dream-flower away like that, and he puts it back down in a hurry. “Does it have to be any more than that?”

“It doesn’t have to be, but...” Romani’s expression turns thoughtful. He leans back against the door, rather pointedly still in Merlin’s way of anything like an egress unless Merlin feels like scrambling up a wall and unscrewing a vent cover. (Pass.) “Why not stick around and accept your praise, then? You certainly _act_ like you have an ego that likes stroking.” 

“I didn’t put you back together for _thanks_ ,” Merlin says, impatience pulling truth closer to tripping off his tongue. “Stupid— who told you to go and sacrifice yourself with a smile on your face, anyway, huh? All that running away and you gave it all up, not even to _die_ but to try to erase yourself from everything. You made people cry over you, you know. _There’s_ your answer, I went after you because I’m a mean old mage and wanted you to deal with everything you left behind you yourself.” 

Romani flinches partway through that, sharp indrawn breath catching in his throat, and he comes away from his comfortable lean against the door to something more defensive. “I didn’t—” he says, and stops, and starts again. “I wanted to live. More than anything.” His mouth twists, curves unhappily. “More than almost anything.” 

“Not more than the rest of the world,” Merlin fills in sullenly. “Not more than you wanted everyone _else_ to live.” It’s hard to actually pick a fight over that.

Silently, Romani nods. 

“ _Heroes_ ,” Merlin scoffs, but his heart isn’t in it.

“...it’s why I wanted to thank you,” Romani says, when it’s clear Merlin doesn’t have more than a spat compliment. “That is... this life was something I chose for myself. The first thing I could. Maybe it hasn’t been easy, picking it up again, but... you gave that choice back to me. For whatever reason.” His gaze weighs heavy on Merlin, and again Merlin thinks of how he says that Da Vinci showed him _everything_.

Okay. Assume he does have the IM logs. What’s in that _everything_ , that Merlin’s forgetting? Surely he didn’t admit to anything... incriminating. The worst he can think of is, maybe, the point where he forgot how to form full sentences while Da Vinci was implacably insisting on their friendship. 

Still, Merlin can’t shake the feeling that Romani knows _more than he does_ , and it’s bothering him, all ice-drips down the back of his neck. 

“You’re welcome, I guess,” Merlin says finally. He glances around the room again. Bed, kotatsu, desk, rose. Door that’s probably a bathroom. Not a lot of leeway for going anywhere else. “Happy endings all around, right?”

“...yeah,” Romani says, but he doesn’t sound entirely convinced. What is Merlin _missing_. “But, Merlin... what about you?” 

“What _about_ me?” Merlin’s genuinely perplexed by this turn of the conversation. “My deeds have been acknowledged, I’ve been thanked, what else is there?”

Romani seems, somehow, faintly troubled. If Merlin hadn’t already been pretty sure something else was going on, this would have clued him in. “What does a happy ending for you look like?” Romani asks.

He leaves Merlin utterly flummoxed, without any answer to give him. What _does_ a happy ending look like? Nonexistent, pretty much. In no small part because he can’t leave his tower. He’ll be watching humans until the very end of them, until the last human dies under his far-seeing gaze. And after that, who knows? With no one left to judge him innocent or guilty, maybe he’ll be free of his prison, but it wouldn’t be much of a freedom, with nothing left besides. How many years...

Inconveniently, his wants and his realities crystallize into understanding now that the question has been asked, now that he’s given the concept to interrogate. There is no putting down the guilt and Merlin hardly wants to anyway; and he wouldn’t want to give up human-watching, not really, with how delightful they are at their best and even their stupidest. There’s a certain sort of satisfaction in his minimal observation and interference. But his tower is very empty, and once: once he had a companion for his prison.

Maybe that’s what a _happy ending_ for Merlin’s story would look like, inasmuch as a meddler like him could conceivably wind up with one for himself. Nothing like absolution, but someone to share all of that infinite watching with. To not be alone, when he presses his face to the window from outside. That much would make everything all the lighter.

It’s a stupidly romantic thought, at the core of it. And, more to the point: “Impossible,” Merlin says aloud, in answer to Romani’s question. “I mean, that requires an ending at all, right? I might not be _technically_ immortal, but Avalon has enough of a claim on me I won’t die until this world has.”

“The traditional phrase is, I believe, _happily ever after_ ,” Romani says. The way he regards Merlin has shifted, as if he saw something in all that contemplation. Maybe he did— maybe Merlin doesn’t have actual control over his face any more and only thinks he does. “Not ‘happily until the end of a lifetime.’”

Merlin waves a hand. “Tomatoes,” he says. “It’s about the same difference. Humans never got that memo, anyway, so things pretty much end when they die. If you’re looking for a boon to grant in thanks or whatever, you can dismiss me to go back to my tower.”

“Your prison,” Romani corrects. He’s frowning again, more definitely this time. Still hasn’t moved from in front of the door, though. Merlin goes to pace a circle around the kotatsu. Sure would be nice to have one of these, but then again what would he use it for? Avalon’s pretty temperate. He never suffers for his environment. “Why do you want to go back?”

“I’m agoraphobic,” Merlin says, an easy sarcasm of a lie through his teeth. “Nice, cozy stone room, that’s all I need! Besides, I can see _anywhere_.” He turns on the spot, flings one arm wide to demonstrate. “Slip through anyone’s dreams. What use does someone like me have for freedom?”

“Freedom isn’t only physical.” Oh, _now_ Romani moves toward him, one carefully placed footstep after another, around the kotatsu toward where Merlin’s paused. “And even if it weren’t— don’t you ever want to touch someone again? To be in this world you’ve been looking after from afar for so long?”

_I’m good, thanks_ doesn’t make it out of Merlin’s mouth. He retreats, step after step, keeping the kotatsu between him and Romani. He doesn’t even know _why_ at this point. It’s a low table with a blanket, it’s not going to make a super great barrier if Romani does something like lunge at him; and the good doctor is way too ethical to do anything untoward. There’s nothing to fear.

Except that Romani’s going to be _nice_ to him and make Merlin want to stay. 

Merlin edges one way around the kotatsu. Romani parallels him. Then the other, and Romani does the same. No getting by, declared in those infinitesimal movements. Romani shakes his head. “I don’t understand,” he says. It’s open entreaty, a _plea_ instead of a statement of fact. “I know _about_ you, everything hundreds of scholars have written— everything the knights here have said— but I don’t _understand_. Merlin, what are you running from?”

At the heart of it, there’s one very simple answer to that. “Pain,” Merlin says, easy and simple. “Coward at heart, see?”

Romani’s mouth twitches. “That I _do_ understand,” he says, just a bit wry. “Merlin. I’m not going to hurt you intentionally. The rest is— being human. Is it so bad, that you’d give up all the joys just to avoid the might-bes?”

Humans, so bright and shining and precious. There and gone again. “That’s the _problem_ ,” Merlin says. “Come on, you can get this. Think of it this way. Your Mash, right? Tiny, adorable. You put years of work into her and then she goes and winds up with a year left to live. Six months. One month. The timer gets smaller and smaller and that’s all you can see, not even the good things in the meanwhile. Just the natural, _human_ end that comes to all things.”

Romani looks more and more wounded the more Merlin talks. Recklessly Merlin plunges onward — he doesn’t really _want_ to cause that pain, but if it gets a gnawing truth through Romani’s hopeful head long enough for him to banish Merlin and stop whatever _reaching out_ he’s doing, then fine, fine! “Have another,” he says. “Never mind that time keeps happening. Maybe, despite not doing anything different, the next one won’t _also_ tear your heart out when that human timer inevitably counts down. Have another. Maybe _these_ lightnesses will carry up the weight of the last one. At what point do you say, no more, a candle can’t hold up a stone? Before or _after_ everything’s gone?” He doesn’t even know what he’s _saying._ Merlin backs away from the kotatsu toward the wall, feeling every bit the feral cat he once coaxed out of a lake. 

Somehow— _why—_ that injured look turns to pity. Merlin swears he’s about ready to _bite_ that man, just to get him to stop being nice. “Are you still talking about me?” Romani asks softly. 

“Of _course_ I’m not!” Merlin snaps, is he that stupid, and— oops. Uh-oh. That was not the correct thing to say. “Just tell me what you want from me so I can explain how bad an idea it is, and have done.”

Romani gestures to the kotatsu. Merlin looks at it, then at him. “Will you _please_ sit down?” Romani says, more like the doctor than the king for some reassuring moments. There are places on his cheeks where light catches dampness, where an emotion more than likely sadness has overflowed his eyes.

Guilt plucks at the root-strangled heart. Silently Merlin sits down, just at the edge of the kotatsu. He doesn’t move to put his legs under it, but it’s still a concession.

“ _Thank_ you,” Romani says, with a huffy sort of dignity. He sits opposite, leaving the barrier of table between them, but has absolutely no reticence about scooting in properly. “Are you going to listen to me and not just bathe in your confirmation bias?”

“It’s not _confirmation bias_ ,” Merlin says, “I am absolutely not useful for— for—” Words fail him. He can’t actually put any definition to what Romani wants him here for, based on their conversation. Happy endings and thanks and running from pain — none of it adds up to any helpful conclusion.

Romani raises his eyebrows. The king and the doctor blur into something imperious. “ _Are you going to listen to me?_ ”

“...I’ll listen,” Merlin says grudgingly. “No promises about your results, though.”

“It’s a start,” Romani says. He taps one finger on the table-top, drawing Merlin’s attention there. He has nice hands, and the dark ink-spikes that line his fingers only make them look longer. “First. Something I think I should clear up before getting to what I want from you. What do you think happens when someone removes themself from the Throne?”

Merlin was expecting a lecture, not a pop quiz. Grudgingly he cudgels his mind away from all the reasons this is a terrible reason and at least _tries_ to examine what Romani’s implying. “That Heroic Spirit would no longer exist, at the world’s call or at any mage’s; that soul can no longer be summoned as a Servant,” he says, lining up pieces. He _felt_ the shoulder-tap more insistently, that of Grand Caster. He’s ignoring it. He’s not dead yet. “Since the Throne exists outside of time, it might even negate whatever summonings have previously applied to that Heroic Spirit, but given the paradox that would cause, I suspect that’s not the case here. I can’t guess if that soul would return to the cycle of reincarnation or simply... vanish.”

“Mmm.” Romani makes a noncommittal sort of a sound. “You’re correct, the Grail War in Fuyuki still happened. So. Say for whatever reason, the Spirit removed from the Throne gains his own life. He bears enough of the same power and attributes and memories to count as the person he was. What happens when that person dies?” 

“If they’re the same person, then there’s no reason they shouldn’t still qualify for the Throne,” Merlin says, half on autopilot as he tries to get ahead of whatever this is. “So when they die, the same process would apply — the soul is removed from the cycle and given residence within the Throne as a Heroic Spirit, to defend the world when necessary, when called for.” He takes it out of the abstract, thinks of _King Solomon_. In eighty years, say, when Romani dies, provided he hasn’t become any less of King Solomon, he might well go right back to the Throne, which is a sort of immortality, except— except— 

Something sinks home. Merlin freezes. “You can’t,” he says. “ _Because_ the Throne exists outside of time, if you’re ever returned to it, then you’re always returned to it. So...” Which would effectively undo everything, after all, wouldn’t it? Solomon ever returning to the Throne of Heroes might well _end the world_. Again. 

That leaves two options: oblivion, or...

“You do see,” Romani says, and his shoulders slump a little. “Yes. More than that, I gave it up willingly. It was... not the sort of choice that can be undone. But then the problem of the Throne remains. _Apparently_ people willing to go that far to save the world get stuck on a _list_.” He might as well be talking about having been banned from a favorite bar, for all the tone of his voice. “If I die, there’s no avoiding the Throne, not really; but I _cannot_ go back. I have it from a reputable source that my only option is to live.” His mouth does something wry again, and he laces his fingers together on the table.

Merlin stares at the patterns of black lacework against brown skin, not quite seeing them. Thinks of this: a being with a voice like breaking glass and shattering swords, a presence that swept through Jerusalem and _ended_ all that was not marked as belonging to a specific God.

Sure. Reputable source, emissary of death. Same difference. 

The logical conclusion takes a while to form in his head, as if the sheer improbability of it, the strange hope implied therein, is something Merlin doesn’t _want_ to comprehend. He doesn’t deserve something like this— oh, well, who’s to say it’s for _him_ , anyway? There. Merlin removes his ego from the equation, a difficult task at the best of times, and nods. There it is. “You won’t die,” he says, comprehending it all at once. “If you ever do, it will be— as the last human, huh. Beyond everything we know and experience now. For you to die, there would have to _be_ no Throne of Heroes.”

“Yes,” Romani says, simple and plain.

Merlin’s world lurches uncomfortably. “That’s awkward,” he says, blankly. “I don’t suppose you can have told me that _before_ this conversation?”

“I tried.” The flatness of Romani’s tone says plenty about the line of his expression without Merlin even having to look. 

“...Right.” Yep. This is... both great and not great. It _does_ remove one of Merlin’s major issues with sticking around — well, there’s still the issue of everyone _else_ , but if he’s honest with himself it’s the largest roadblock in the way of the very stupid feelings he’s been hiding away. The ones gripping his heart all thriving roots and spreading leaves. 

Stubbornly, Merlin holds tight to the _other_ issues. The ones where he himself is a terrible friend, prone to promiscuity and inaction and failing when it matters most. How all he knows is an idea; how all _Romani_ knows is an idea. 

Except apparently the years-long deception isn’t something he’s angry about still. Merlin presses at his heart again, instinctively trying in vain to push the dream of a bloom down where it will stop _hoping_. It doesn’t work, of course — the flowers isn’t there. All he gets is Romani’s curious, alarmingly observant gaze on him, taking in the gesture and seeing _something_. Probably something Merlin would rather he didn’t, too.

Ugh.

“Okay, I’ve listened,” Merlin announces, and sits on his hands. “Was that it?” He doubts it was, but anything to irritate Romani and keep him from looking too closely. “Tower, curfew, you know how it is.”

Romani’s mouth compresses for a moment. “I don’t,” he says. “Not that way, anyway.” Mercifully there’s no word on the nature of Merlin’s prison — maybe Da Vinci didn’t tell him _everything_ everything, then. Romani takes an audibly deep breath, as if squaring himself for something — hesitates — plunges forward. “I’d like you to stay here for a while. There are more than a few people here who are concerned for their friend— _you_ ,” Romani adds, tart as Merlin glances from side to side in mock search for whoever Romani might be talking about. “Solitary confinement has any number of adverse psychological effects on a person, and I doubt clairvoyance fully makes up for it. And more than that, I want to get to know you. As you, not Magi*Mari.” 

The words feel rather like they’re slamming into a glass window and sliding down it with the impact of a particularly unfortunate slug, leaving sticky trails Merlin’s going to have to do something drastic to get rid of. “ _Why_?” he asks unthinking, without hiding how utterly perplexed that entire speech has made him. “Why is _that_ what you want from me? There have to be hundreds of more satisfying boons.”

“It’s what I want,” Romani says, with an irritating serenity about him. “And I’m serious.”

“That’s a useless tautology,” Merlin grumbles. “You want that because it’s what you want, there _has_ to be more than that.”

The weight of the stare on him is uncomfortably kingly. Merlin squirms, rolling his shoulders like he can shake it off. “What if I don’t want to get to know _you_?” he demands in turn, the offensive the only thing that’s left to him with Romani making no sense. “Even if I _can_ have human emotions, what says I have them about you? Tower living is just right for me, thanks.” 

Romani tilts his head again, and the brief glimpse Merlin has of his face before looking away is _uncomfortably_ sympathetic. “You keep pressing at your heart,” Romani says, with a softness that makes Merlin’s heart ache and ache. “Does it hurt?”

Damn it _all_. For one panicked moment Merlin genuinely considers hiding under the kotatsu. Practicality hits him over the head a moment later — he’s never going to fit his entire body under it and the attempt will just tell Romani more about what Merlin’s trying to avoid — but he really thinks about it. “Maybe I have a heart condition,” Merlin tries.

“Do you?” Romani asks, too earnest to be borne. “We have very good medical staff.”

Ah. Right. Merlin is not precisely eager to exist under the tender mercies of the Nightingale. He wilts vaguely. “No.”

“I see.” Romani rearranges the way his hands are laced together. The motion draws Merlin’s eye; under the tattoos he notes that Romani’s white-knuckled, that he’s twisted his fingers up very tightly indeed. 

Merlin can’t begin to guess if it’s nerves or frustration. If the world had any justice in it, it’d be that Romani’s frustrated with him, but... Romani keeps not doing things Merlin expects him to.

“Will you stay?” Romani asks again. 

There’s not precisely any way Merlin can do anything about it. When he tugs around vaguely at his essence, inasmuch as he can, he finds the tie of Servant to Master there. They’re in a secret facility in Antarctica, and his prison in Avalon has been overridden, and he doesn’t precisely have any way to get back under his own power. He could, maybe, probably, guilt Romani into letting him go — if this is an overture to _more_ then the ethical angle is probably a really good one to take the wind out of Romani’s sails with — but he would have to strike a few low blows.

And if he doesn’t do that...

Well, then he doesn’t have any _choice_ but to stay, does he? This is still a sort of prison. And it’s unlikely Merlin can get away with _too_ much meddling or interference with a host of geniuses and kings breathing down his neck. 

He lets out a shivery breath, tests the feeling of a cage. Bigger. More company. Still a cage. That... might be all right. “What are the terms?” Merlin asks. “What does ‘getting to know you’ mean for you, how long, can I get away with hiding in the vents, you know, the usual.”

The look Romani gives him slants more to amused than irritated, much to Merlin’s chagrin. “It means that I would like to see if we can have _some_ kind of — relationship—” He fumbles there, mouth opening and shutting for a moment. “But I don’t— um. I don’t know about sex. I know you’re— as a cambion, that’s important for you, isn’t it?”

Technically, _very_ technically, Merlin could do without, at least for a little while. Sex is the best transmission medium — desire and want and all those tender emotions that get bound up in it, _plus_ the transfer of mana. It’s not the only place he can derive nutrition, but it’s by far the most efficient and most fun. 

If he’s not in Avalon he actually has to worry about making sure he gets some, huh. “I can wander dreams,” he says, offhanded. “Borrow those to feed myself. It’s not so bad, just a little less flavorful. Is that going to bother you?” It might actually be a deal-breaker. This occurs to Merlin belatedly, and he’s not entirely certain how he feels about it. It’s an annoying little turmoil. 

“I suppose you’re not _technically_ sleeping with other people,” Romani says uncertainly. He’s visibly red across the cheeks. “I don’t know if I’m going to be the jealous type, but if I’m the one that’s not comfortable with sex, that’s my problem, isn’t it? I can’t expect you to not feed yourself for that.” 

Merlin stares at him for some few moments, mostly just because he doesn’t entirely understand how one person can be that _nice_. It’s a thoughtful response. “Huh,” he says finally. “Well, whatever. We can workshop it later. My other questions?”

Romani doesn’t stop blushing, but his words _do_ get more certain. “I don’t know how long,” he says. “Chaldea is also dealing with some things that may benefit from your assistance, whether or not we... pursue anything.”

Merlin honestly hasn’t looked, and Da Vinci hasn’t mentioned anything. Or if she has, he ignored it while he was sulking. “If I’m living here, I don’t mind taking a look,” Merlin says with a shrug. “I want an end date, though. No thousand-and-one nights-ing me.” 

“I wouldn’t make a very good Scheherazade.” Romani smiles at him, awkward but hopeful. Some part of his demeanor has changed, though Merlin couldn’t put words on precisely what it is. Just that though he’s sitting across a man with golden eyes and snowfall hair and shoulders that have borne the weight of the world, he’s still definitely just a man. The king waits in the wings somewhere, probably. “A year? It’s a good round number.”

Merlin spent longer than that speaking to him as Magi*Mari. Considering that, a year might be fair enough, but naturally he has to argue anyway. “Six months.”

“I don’t think that’s long enough to be sure of anything,” Romani says. “How about nine months? With the option to extend only by mutual agreement.”

Nine months is enough time to make an entire human person, which seems vaguely fitting. Merlin nods silently. 

“Okay.” Romani unlinks his hands, flexes his fingers. There’s the faint crackle of joints popping as he winces, and then offers one open hand to Merlin. “Thank you.” 

Merlin doesn’t say anything as he clasps Romani’s extended hand, mostly due to having to chase his heart down from where it’s fluttering in his throat. Stupid, hopeful thing. He ignores the way the warmth of skin contact alone sends skittering sparks up his arm. That’s unnecessary nonsense and will be summarily ignored. He’ll let go any day now. “...Don’t thank me yet,” he says finally. “You haven’t spent all _that_ much time for me. I might be the most annoying thing you’ve ever met.” 

“Not while Blackbeard exists,” Romani mutters darkly. 

That’s a low bar to clear. Graciously Merlin doesn’t mention this. “Anyway,” he says instead. Oops, he’s still holding Romani’s hand. Gingerly Merlin lets go, missing the touch as soon as he’s done that. “Since I’m staying, where am I _staying_? You know, in Chaldea.”

“Here,” Romani says. “At least for now. Nothing else has been set up yet.” He glances at his hand, then moves back from the table and stands, stretching out his long legs. “I have a spare pillow in the wardrobe.”

Merlin looks around the room again, in case he’s missed something, and then very deliberately raises his eyebrows at Romani. Wiggles them. “But _doctor_ ,” he says, making his voice all high and breathy. “There’s only _one bed_. How scandalous!”

For this low price of admission he has the delightful experience of watching the man who was King Solomon shade even further toward crimson. “I’ll sleep on the floor,” he says. “The kotatsu is warm enough— with a pillow, I’ll be fine.” 

Oh, this is fun. Merlin himself gets up, finds that his knees have gone stiff, and does a little stretching himself to make sure he can bounce without wincing. “I’d be a terrible guest if I put my host out of a bed,” he says, eyes wide and innocent. “I can take the floor.” Also, that way he can sneak out of the room in the middle of the night with less chance of being noticed and explore for hiding places as much as for not being in close quarters with someone he...

Anyway. 

“I believe it’s the host’s responsibility to ensure the guest is cared for, including providing comfortable lodgings.” Romani smiles at him again. “I really don’t mind it. Of course, it’s not that small a bed — I’m capable of sharing like a mature adult if you are. We can see to alternative accommodations in the morning.” 

Merlin had been hoping for more blushing out of that. “Nicely played,” he says, a little grudgingly. “Although you say that like I won’t admit to being hideously immature just to put you out.”

“While you decide whether or not you’re going to, I’m going to change.” Romani goes to the closet to collect what’s presumably pajamas. “Are you going to bolt as soon as I go into the bathroom?” 

“It’s cold out there,” Merlin says, just a little bit whiny. “No.” There’ll be plenty of time for it later. Right now, Romani’s going to be suspicious and watching. If he doesn’t run for it now, he’ll probably have an easier chance of slipping away later. “Is it bedtime already? —What time _is_ it, actually?”

“Accounting for the time it took to summon you and this conversation, probably past 9 Chaldea time,” Romani says as he goes into the bathroom. He goes far enough to be out of sight, but doesn’t actually close the door, and so his voice drifts back distantly. “I _did_ warn you.” 

Right. Merlin rubs distractedly at his forehead. He’s forgotten a _lot_ of vital things in the last, what was it, hour? He’d worry more about himself if he was especially concerned for it being symptom of anything larger, but mostly it’s just annoying. And it’s making him misstep. He won’t forget again: Romani knows demons, knows magic, and no additional snowing on that front is going to help Merlin at all. 

Chaldea for nine months. That’s... exciting. Merlin looks at the logical conclusion of this, which is that the longer he’s here, the worse his chances of avoiding all of the knights and his king successfully get. The odds are that, unless he lives _entirely_ in the vents, he’s going to run into them sooner or later, probably in a poor enough situation to get cornered into a long Talk. 

He doesn’t want that. The possibility of at least one of them _forgiving_ him, like idiots, is way too high to be borne. He doesn’t know what option would be _worse_ , honestly, and so the best solution is just... avoidance.

Merlin stops thinking about that and starts scrying out Chaldea’s ventilation system instead. Just in case. Oh, and storage closets. Surely there are some storage closets he can duck into in a pinch, and knowing where they are will be the first step in the battle. It occurs to him vaguely that he’s a sort-of ancient mage with a significant historical and metaphysical weight, and he’s plotting how to hide from people in storage closets, and that maybe something has gone wrong in his life if he finds that necessary, but...

What else is he going to do, talk to people? Communicate openly? Make himself vulnerable and his wounds and desires visible? Risk the mortifying ordeals of being known and seen clearly? _Ha_. Laughable. 

He’s still standing there, eyes focused on distant things, when Romani turns back up. Vaguely Merlin’s aware of Romani doing something in the closet, and then coming nearer, specifically to wave at him. “Merlin?” 

“Hm?” With some effort, Merlin re-focuses away from supply closet 12 near the cafeteria, and eyes Romani. The flannel pajamas he’s changed into are a little at odds with the golden eyes and snowfall hair, mostly because Merlin still sort-of expects _king_ from that color palette and he’s very definitively getting nothing of the sort. 

It’s a little jarring, honestly. He’ll get used to it, but there’s some part of him that wishes he’d thought to see if there was any genetic material from the redhead remaining. The coppery highlights are the sort of thing that aren’t always visible on a first look. 

Romani frowns at him, but it’s concern rather than disapproval. “Are you all right?” 

Ah, the innocence of asking that question and expecting an honest answer. Merlin shrugs, smiles cheerfully. “Oh, probably! I’ve never been summoned like this before, I bet it’s just world-lag.” 

Most people, when summoning a Heroic Spirit, summon a fraction of them into a created vessel to become a Servant. For obvious reasons, this wouldn’t work for Merlin, but just _thinking_ about the fact that this is his real body, not a projection he’s manifested or a created vessel to hold his essence — the fact that, despite the tug in his soul, he is very seriously out on parole, living and breathing in the human world — ah, if he’s honest, perhaps it scares him a little. It’s inescapably real. 

“World-lag,” Romani echoes, obviously dubious. “I’m not sure that’s a thing.”

“It’s daytime in Avalon,” Merlin says, with an innocence just short of pious. “But I also don’t really need to sleep, there. I do it when I need to dream.” He doesn’t _have_ to dream when he sleeps, but there’s no other reason to, when he’s shut up in the tower and sustained by all the forces of Avalon. “I have absolutely no idea how long I’ve been awake.”

Silently, Romani points behind him to the bed. 

Merlin debates arguing with this, hesitating very visibly on the spot.

“Tomorrow you’re going for a medical exam and spare clothes,” Romani informs him. “For now, you’re going to bed. _We’re_ going to bed.” The realization of what he’s said crosses his face, but Romani firms himself up and points again. “If you don’t know if you have slept or need to sleep, then it’s worth trying. If you fall asleep, you’ll probably need it. If not, at least you have rest and we’ll see what tomorrow brings.”

We, huh. “Is this my Master or my doctor ordering me to bed?” Merlin asks, though he _does_ now move in that direction, if grudgingly. He bends to get his boots off, conveniently not looking at Romani while he does so. 

“I’d rather not be either,” Romani says flatly. “Any necessary medical care is going to be in the charge of someone else — probably Paracelsus, to start with — and I’m only your _Master_ now because you didn’t give me any other recourse. I’m not going to force you to do anything.” 

“Except stay,” Merlin says softly. And it’s easier, with his attention on boots and buckles rather than the man behind him, to say: “But that, you shouldn’t give me the choice about. Not now.” 

He knows he shouldn’t have said it, if he _really_ wants to get out of this whole — everything. So it’s probably because he doesn’t _actually_ want to go, even if all his habits and wants scream to run from anything like closeness.

He’ll run if he’s let go. He absolutely will — the anticipated pain of some future loss and the tugging yearning in his chest are both inescapably huge, both things to flee from. That’s why Romani needs to keep him here, if he wants... anything. 

And Merlin wants _enough_ not to try too hard to free himself.

Boots discarded near the bed, he debates briefly about the virtues of being annoying versus the difficulty of being vulnerable. In the end he doesn’t take anything else off, only sprawls himself over Romani’s bed and plasters a winning smile on his face as he looks back at Romani. Helpfully, Merlin wiggles his eyebrows. 

Romani puts a hand to his mouth as if in thought, but Merlin catches the tail end of the expression under his fingers. Ah, damn, that’s ‘endearedly trying not to smile’ rather than ‘this man is being terribly thoughtless’, isn’t it. In a moment Romani masters himself, and unfolds his arm to make a gentle shooing motion. “That’s not sharing, you know.”

“Maybe I don’t know how to share nicely,” Merlin says promptly. “Greedy and selfish, that’s me.” 

“I don’t believe half the things you say about yourself, at this point,” Romani says, half over his shoulder as he turns. Merlin leans up on his elbows to see where he’s going, but Romani just goes over to the closet and tugs down the spare pillow he mentioned earlier. 

“Why, Doctor Archaman, are you calling me a liar.” Merlin sprawls out again only so he can press a hand to his chest in dramatic feigned umbrage. This is somewhat ruined when Romani pitches the pillow at the bed and it hits Merlin in the face with an audible _poff_. Helpless in the face of such an assault, Merlin laughs, almost soundless under the pillow. 

“I think your relationship to the truth about yourself is a... very creative one.” Romani settles on a gentle paraphrase as he crosses back to the bed. Merlin’s made no move to shove the pillow off him, so Romani picks it up, holding it to one side so he can fix the revealed reprobate with a look that’s trying very hard to be stern and falls just flat. 

Unrepentant, Merlin wiggles on the spot. “So when I tell you I’m a bad influence...”

Romani just seems thoughtful. “I’d believe it,” he says finally, “but not for the reasons you likely think.” He drops the pillow at the head of the bed, and rather than shove Merlin aside, perches with one hip on the remaining mattress real estate available to him. “You mentioned wandering dreams for the, um, nutrition you need. Does that also provide for things like preventing touch deprivation?”

“Uh,” Merlin says intelligently. He has absolutely no idea, honestly. Avalon should provide for him, or should _have —_ he should in theory be in prime physical condition — but it’s also definitely been a long time since he touched another living thing in reality, even accounting for Cath Palug’s existence in the Tower. That was only up to a point, anyway. 

“Do not try me with the _demon_ excuse,” Romani warns him, clearly having taken the wrong idea from Merlin’s silence.

Well, Merlin can’t blame him, given the last few hours. “No, no, it’s not that,” he says, waving one hand. “I genuinely don’t know, all right? It might be separate or it might not be. I’d tell you I haven’t noticed anything very wrong, but...” Yep, there go skeptical eyebrows. Merlin closes his mouth and looks as innocent as he can.

“You’re definitely getting that medical exam tomorrow,” Romani informs him, and makes the shooing gesture again. “If you were serious about sharing, scoot over a bit, please. Otherwise I’ll sleep on the floor.” 

Merlin weighs his options just long enough to make Romani pick up the pillow before he scoots over, toward the wall the bed’s set against. Romani pauses mid-motion — smiles hesitantly — puts the pillow back down and turns the covers down to slip under. “Some of the heating is still being repaired, so I’d recommend under the blankets if you’re comfortable with that.”

Heating? Oh, right. “Gilgamesh’s little stunt,” Merlin says aloud, realizing. Some distant internal part of him, easily identifiable, is yelling and flailing wildly about the idea of bed-sharing. It’s _such a trope_. Merlin ignores that part. “I didn’t see exactly what happened, actually — something about Enuma Elish indoors?”

“He blew out part of the wall,” Romani confirms, tugging the blankets against Merlin’s weight. “Directly to the Antarctic. I’m a little surprised — I felt your power through the rose, I thought you would have seen _something_.” 

There’s something in Romani’s voice. Merlin turns it over in his head, trying to figure out _what_. He can’t identify the tone as anything in particular, and so just moves when Romani pulls the covers out from under him. “No,” he says. “Nothing. Gilgamesh was blocking my sight somehow.”

“Huh.” Romani makes a softer, thinking sort of a sound, and finally shrugs. “Maybe he wanted to make sure he was the only clairvoyant in the area. —anyway, my point was: it can get cold at night, more now than before.”

“Is this your way of suggesting we should cuddle for warmth?” Merlin wiggles his eyebrows some more, as dramatically suggestive as he knows how to be.

Romani huffs with quiet offense. “That’s up to you,” he says. “As long as it’s just cuddling... and you don’t get too grabby about it.” He leans out of bed just enough to fumble at the wall toward the head of the bed, and in a moment something clicks under his fingers and the lights go out, save for the dim soft moonglow of some lights embedded about knee-height in the walls. 

This is, none of this, what Merlin expected. He lays himself out along the wall, props his elbow on what’s apparently his pillow and leans his head on his hand, watching Romani shift down in bed and find a position and place to settle in. Somehow in the bare lighting Romani is still terribly nice to look at, which seems somehow unfair. There’s something about the way that dim glow drifts across his cheek that just... makes Merlin want to do something terribly unwise.

He expends all of his self-control on _that_ , which is clearly why he keeps talking instead of shutting up. “Soooo, how grabby is too grabby?” 

Not that he plans to. He just wants to know. Merlin eyes the shadows created by the covers where there’s room for a second person, provided Romani hasn’t completely rolled up in them. 

Romani makes a sound distinctly like _mmph_. That doesn’t have anything understandable in it, so Merlin waits there in the dark for a few more moments to see if anything _else_ is forthcoming. The fact this time is spent observing the flutter of eyelashes is completely incidental. “No tickling,” he says. “No, um, genitals. No... squeezing?” 

Fortunately or unfortunately, tickling only occurs to Merlin as it’s ruled out. “I think I can abide by those restrictions.” There’s some absent eyeballing of the blankets again, and then of Romani’s face, half-turned away. Restless uncertainty itches at Merlin. “Hey, why _are_ you sleepy now, anyway? I thought Da Vinci said she had trouble getting you to sleep.”

“I haven’t been sleeping well,” Romani says, quiet and without the recrimination Merlin half expects. “In this body, it matters less, but I _also_ just had to summon someone from the reverse side of the world. It turns out that takes a lot of effort.” 

Right. Merlin chews on a helping of guilt anyway. The restless silences keep happening, and he doesn’t know what else to do with them but fill them with chatter. “How accessible is your room to other people? What I mean to ask is, is it likely Cath Palug’s going to try to eat my face in the morning?” 

“He’s not going to try to eat your face.” Romani’s tone now just sounds _weary_. “He’s settled down a little.” Merlin’s about to say something about how actually that is no guarantee of Fou _not_ trying to feast if he has unfettered access to this room, but at that point Romani rolls the half-turn necessary to face him, eyes lidded but definitely open. “What is it you _really_ want to ask? You’re...” A frown, barely visible except in the crease between his brows. “It sounds like you’re avoiding something.” 

Merlin is _absolutely_ avoiding something, and that something is the warm darkness of a bed with another person in it, luring and sweet. But: he said he was going to do this maturely and politely, and he’s not about to back down _now_. “I don’t remember how to sleep for the sake of sleeping,” he says instead, which is close enough to true. “If I need to dream, that’s easy, but that’s not the same.” And he doesn’t want to revisit his own internal world right now, nor steal into Romani’s, nor go a-wandering the rest of the world that’s open to him. 

Mostly, within the confines of this situation, the _best_ option is probably sitting awake and watching Romani sleep, but that’s not exactly useful. And he keeps being overwhelmed with the urge to do _something_ , to fill quiet and stillness with chatter and motion.

“It involves not talking.” The corner of Romani’s mouth curves up, changes the shape of his cheek and the angle the light catches. “Are you sure there’s nothing else you need?” 

Very, very consciously Merlin does not press at his chest, does not make like he can push down something that exists only in dreams. “...I’ll figure it out,” Merlin says, more or less subsiding. 

“Okay.” Romani nods, an incremental _shhh_ of skin across cloth as he shifts. “Let me know.” 

And he closes his eyes again, as if to sleep, as if it’s all as easy as just _that_. 

Sleeping is not, in fact, as easy as all that. At least not for Merlin. 

To be fair to the relative skill levels involved, he doesn’t even bother to make an effort at first. He just... watches. Romani has his eyes closed, at least, and Merlin can’t quite tell if he’s sleeping without trying to reach into his dreams. So Merlin observes: the line of his cheek, the dim light-limned planes that become more evident as time goes, as Merlin grows more and more accustomed to seeing in this darkness. The rumpled puffs of his hair, caught up at his shoulder or splayed out on the pillow. 

All the things he’d pointedly been avoiding looking at when Da Vinci tried to tempt him with it, or even just now, during their whole... talk. About things. The shape of Romani’s face, he’s finding, hasn’t actually changed. His build has — probably, just judging by the span of his shoulders, _not that Merlin had been looking_. But other than that, there’s more significant difference in his coloring and stance than in the concrete shapes of him.

And he still blushes just as entertainingly.

Around the time Merlin starts contemplating the line of Romani’s mouth and the relative fullness of his lips is when he can admit to himself that he has a problem. It’s not _just_ that Romani’s lovely to look on, not _just_ that he has a striking gaze and hands made for delicate work. It’s that when Merlin looks at all these things his urges aren’t only carnal. He could probably seduce Romani and have done if he _really_ needed to get it out of his system — put on a little Magi*Mari charm, some glitter and hearts and cheer, and it shouldn’t be that hard — but that’s not all he wants. There’s creeping thoughts of things that smack uncomfortably of affection. Temple kisses and hair-braiding and the crook of Romani’s neck which seems, frankly, just perfect for Merlin to bury his face in...

Anyway, all stupid, all not happening. A desire for one man to be free isn’t enough to build something lasting out of, and Merlin isn’t taking any liberties. He doesn’t need cuddling. Or blankets. The only reason he even puts his head down on the pillow is because his arm gets tired of holding his head up and, well, it’s a bed. This is what it’s for, lying down.

Only it seems stupid and petty to just completely ignore the blankets next to him when Romani’s _offered_ and pointedly not rolled himself up in all of them. And Merlin’s feet might be a _little_ cold.

Slowly, a bit grudgingly, with several quick flickers of looks back at Romani’s face to make sure he hasn’t woken up, Merlin tucks himself under the very edge of the covers. 

Fine, it’s better like that. He adjusts his head on the pillow and regards Romani from this new, closer distance. What an improbable man. How is he _real_ , actually, apart from Merlin’s hard work on his behalf. How does someone just... decide things, like he has, and then make things happen? It’s not the mysteries of summoning Merlin’s having issue with, it’s the part where apparently, somewhere while he wasn’t looking, Romani not only decided that he wanted to make a go of it with his _intentionally absent_ spirit-origin-fisher, but also decided to haul him out of Avalon to make that real.

It doesn’t make sense. Apparently there’s a lot he missed in refusing to look at Chaldea. Merlin has a vague hunch that some of it has to do with Gilgamesh’s secret murder adventure, but the one thing he _would_ want to scry out is very blocked to him by a particular Sumerian spite.

And he doubts _Gilgamesh_ is going to tell him. If he asks Da Vinci... no, she’s definitely going to laugh at him and then hold it over his head, and the last thing he wants is to give her leverage on him. He’ll have to casually ask around and see what he can turn up. Maybe Mash or Ritsuka would know, actually.

Thus set on some prying tomorrow, Merlin returns his attentions to watching Romani sleep, only to find that Romani’s eyes are open and watching him in turn. _Oops_. 

“You know it’s difficult to sleep with someone staring at me,” Romani says with some tired amusement. 

“Dunno,” Merlin says with a shrug. “Never had that problem.” He leans up just to thump the pillow a bit fluffier and put his head down again, accidentally a bit closer to Romani. They study each other, apparently. Romani’s eyes are definitely only for him, right now.

Merlin can’t tell if he’s blushing in this light, which is a shame.

“I wonder if dreaming sleep is still restful for you.” It’s an idle wondering. Romani’s eyes flutter, shut halfway; he’s regarding Merlin now through his lashes. “Can you put _other_ people to sleep?”

“Sure,” Merlin says. “Though there usually have to be dreams involved.” —wait, does Romani know about the one time Merlin actually _did_ enforce naptime, back when Gilgamesh and Merlin and Da Vinci were conspiring to get Romani some modicum of rest? There’s no way to ask without outing himself as the instigator of that. “Why do you ask?”

“I have a hard time sleeping, sometimes,” Romani mutters. “It doesn’t help that this body doesn’t seem to need to in quite the same way, so I— forget when I’m wrapped up in other things. And as Da Vinci reminds me, there are things a human mind does in sleep that we can’t quite replicate outside it, and we don’t know if magic compensates for those.” It all sounds very put-upon, honestly. 

Merlin turns it over consideringly and nods. “Sure, I can give you a push. You’ll probably dream, though.” 

Romani buries his face under the blanket for some few moments. “Okay,” he says, when he lifts his head again. “That’s fine. No peeking in my dreams, though. You can watch me sleep all you want if I’m already asleep.” 

“Aw,” Merlin says, half in jest. He’s not about to invade Romani’s dreams right now, anyway. The manifestation of himself would probably just have a rose in his chest, and then Romani would ask about it and Merlin would have to come up with _something_... which Romani will probably, annoyingly, see through. In theory he could just hunker down and hide in illusions and the folds of dreams, but there’s not insignificant odds of the sheep following him.

He really needs to sit down with that and figure out what it is. It’s only getting more annoying.

Not tonight. Tonight he reaches out unthinking, cups Romani’s cheek only momentarily before pressing fingertips to his temple. Sleep is an easy net to drape over someone who wants to be asleep anyway; he weaves it of good dreams and rest, and brushes Romani off into a true sleep.

The rhythm of his breath changes, as does the way his eyes flicker under closed lids. Merlin watches studiously, memorizing. It’ll be useful to him to know when Romani’s actually asleep versus when he’s just trying very hard or pretending to be. 

...he really can’t sneak out of bed like this. Gently, ever so carefully, Merlin shifts to a proper horizontal position, as if he himself actually might go to sleep. As a concession he tugs the covers the rest of the way over him, like he belongs in this bed, and then stills. _Now_ what? There’s the sound of Romani’s breath, the soft background hum of a ventilation system that only becomes loud when all other sounds have quieted. He can’t get away, and his other options appear to be... watching Romani sleep all night, or himself sleeping.

It’s a tough call, it really is. 

Merlin studies the place where Romani’s eyelashes rest against his cheek for a long, long time. 


	2. all alone and a-lowly

The first concept Merlin has of sleep is that of waking up. He doesn’t remember passing out finally, or the duration of the sleep — apparently it was a wholly different experience from intentionally tossing himself dreamward. Instead it just feels like the moment directly before this one was watching Romani sleep and vaguely contemplating what he’s going to do with himself in Chaldea. Then a blink passes, and Romani’s alarm for the next morning is going off. 

And Merlin _appears_ to have at least one arm over Romani’s chest, and his face mashed against Romani’s shoulder. It is not, as far as cuddling goes, the most risqué thing that could have happened, and he’s even managed to stick to the restrictions Romani laid out the night before. But: 

Merlin didn’t mean to do it, is the thing, and he’s spent a not inconsiderable amount of time telling himself all varieties of no. And yet as soon as he’s unconscious, apparently he turns into a heat-seeking clinging vine. 

Romani groans and reaches for the alarm, slapping around on the bedside table vaguely before managing to deactivate it. Automatically Merlin holds closer before he can stop himself, and then he just... doesn’t stop. Romani may have been on to something, about touch deprivation. Merlin doesn’t want to think about how long it’s actually been...

Also, he doesn’t want to tell Romani he’s right at all. 

An amused sigh stirs Merlin’s hair. He squeezes his eyes shut, as if not looking will make him less seeable. “Are you actually asleep?” Romani asks, with that same amusement coloring his quiet voice. 

“Mmmmnngh,” Merlin says, which seems like his safest bet. 

“That doesn’t sound like sleeping,” Romani points out. “Were you that tired?”

A good question, actually. Without looking up, or in fact giving any other indication that he might actually be awake, Merlin does a quick self-assessment and concludes that the only reason he wants to go back to bed is warm and close. He’s not actually _tired_ , or at least there’s nothing weighing down his consciousness like a heavy grey blanket, and if he removed the cuddled bedmate from the equation he would not at all be bothering to lay about.

Bah.

“Mmmh,” Merlin comments, and holds tighter. 

Oh, he really has no good justification for this at all. If he admits to not being tired, then he admits to desiring contact. Better keep pretending to be incoherent. Except that then a very light hand lands on his hair, and Merlin goes utterly still under it as Romani — apparently re-orders some errant strands, smooths that gentle touch along Merlin’s head. Just once, but— Merlin’s heart squeezes, twists with warmth. He _barely_ manages to restrain some horribly embarrassing sound. 

Another softly amused sigh. “All right,” Romani says. “I need to get up, but I won’t be unavailable if you need something. Except in case of medical emergency, in which case you _are_ going to have to wait.” A pause. A huff. “Someone else’s medical emergency, anyway. Other than that, you’re welcome to go back to sleep if you need it.” Gingerly Romani moves to pry himself free of Merlin’s grip.

Merlin doesn’t really have much choice but to let him, at this point, and so he sprawls with a great show of sleepiness in the warm space left behind, slitting his eyes open to peer through the curtain of his hair only when Romani has walked some steps away. 

Eventually, the sound of a shower. 

While the warm bed _is_ comfortable, and there’s something tempting about pressing his face into the pillow Romani had left behind, there’s really no better opportunity to scoot. Merlin rolls himself out of bed, lands light-footed and finds where he left his boots. His hair more or less falls into a semblance of order, although there’s a chance he’s actually going to have to start combing it if he keeps _sleeping_ on it. He makes his way to the door — fiddles around with the electronic lock in the hopes that no one’s set an alarm on it — is rewarded when the door slides open. 

The hall beckons. It’s cooler than the inside of this room, and perhaps less welcoming. Merlin lingers in the doorway, surveying the room for several long moments, before it occurs to him that he’s being stupid. 

He slips out of Romani’s room and into the Chaldean halls at large, feeling rather like a thief stealing away in the night. Well, it’s not like he’s going _away_. He’s just, you know, wandering. Avoiding any potential early morning domesticity, and also avoiding the examination of why he’s avoiding that in the first place. A few hallways over Merlin switches his focus outward, scans turns and paths ahead of him so he can carefully avoid running into anyone else at all. 

He _does_ trip over the floor twice while he’s doing that, but it’s worth it for dodging Bedivere. Merlin would deserve any recriminations _there_ , but he absolutely can’t chance the dewy eyes and chivalry. Nope. Not today, Bedwyr of the Perfect Sinew. 

It kind of raises the question of _what next_ again, though. Merlin ranges through halls but steers away from gathering places — recreation room, medical wing, cafeteria-and-kitchens, command room, living quarters, gym — anywhere Servants and humans collect in groups, really, including any particularly spacious hallway intersections. The group of people in the room when he’d been summoned had been small, but he has absolutely no doubt word has spread. If nothing else, from Ritsuka’s sheer uncontainable excitement.

He doesn’t begrudge it, but he _is_ going to hide from it while he contemplates how to get through the next six months without growing so hideously attached he can’t extricate himself. 

In the end — even as some distant part of Merlin is muttering to himself that it’s a lost cause, he’s already doomed — he goes for the vents.

Scrying out where the Hassans usually gain entry isn’t _too_ hard. There’s a few vents that show semi-frequent wear around the screws and corners, and Merlin remembers about where he’d found the lot of them back when they’d been summoned to Jerusalem. Unfortunately he doesn’t have quite the same jumping abilities as those who have spent their lives dedicated in the life of the Old Man of the Mountain, and so Merlin winds up standing in the hall just below, hands propped on his hips and head tilted back to scowl vaguely at the vent in question.

If he _did_ try jumping for it once or twice, at least there are no witnesses to tell the tale that he did.

Well. That’s a wash unless he wants to go and find a stepladder, or an entry point that’s lower to the ground.

“I believe, even given recent developments, that the persons you surely seek prefer to use the entry in the gym,” provides a helpful, English-accented voice from approximately the end of the hall. Merlin flinches _badly —_ he’d stopped looking around under the impression that he would surely be safe and not snuck-up-on for a few minutes while he worked out the vent access. 

He turns a moment later, pressing down on the reflex to do so loudly or quickly, and smiles as cheerfully as he knows how at the newcomer. “I’d ask why you think I’m looking for specific people, but that’s just asking to be read like an open book, huh?” Dark hair, dark overcoat, the hint of metallics and the uncanny glint of a magnifying glass over one shoulder — yep, Sherlock Holmes.

Merlin hates him on sight. 

Or, to be more specific, Merlin has the feeling of being _looked_ at, which doesn’t happen to him very often, and furthermore _seen_ , which happens even less often than that. He links his hands together and hides them in the sleeves of his robe. 

“I suppose you _could_ be looking for Jack,” Holmes muses, “but somehow, I think not.” 

This, too, is correct. Merlin almost makes a face, then doesn’t. “Nope, definitely not up for that particular challenge,” he says, fidgeting mostly where it won’t be seen. “Anyway! The gym, you said, right? Helpful! Thanks, I’ll try that.” 

Holmes arches one eyebrow with a sort of determined interest. “Of course, the entrance to the ventilation system located in the gym is somewhat smaller than this one.” 

Merlin considers how broad his shoulders are, then the size of the vent over their heads, and shrugs. “Good thing that’d only be a problem if I was looking to get into the vents in the first place, right?” he says. 

“A good thing indeed.” The arched eyebrow implies that they _both_ know that’s not what Merlin had in mind, and the only reason Holmes is not calling him on it is that it wouldn’t be a satisfying dénouement at all. “You aren’t what I expected; and yet, somehow, perfectly fitting your legend.” 

As they’ve known each other approximately five minutes, if that, Merlin isn’t sure he’s flattered at all. He extricates his hands from his sleeves just to wave, a quick little wiggle of fingers as he turns to _leave immediately_. “Isn’t it funny how that turns out, here? Anyway! Thanks for the tip!” 

He’s half-expecting to be stopped _somehow_ , but nothing happens, and no voice calls out to him. Holmes just watches him go. Still vaguely rattled despite this, Merlin quickens his pace as he heads toward the gym — he may as _well_ try the vent, right, and if he finds that the gym has too many people nearby he can either drop an illusion over himself or just come back later. 

Foolproof plan.

Unfortunately his foolproof plan did not account for Leonardo Da Vinci lying in wait around the blind corner just before the gym. Merlin nearly runs into her, attempts to reverse course, and quite promptly finds he has a gauntlet clamped around his elbow. “Ah,” he says, looking down at her. “The detective was just a red herring, I see.”

Da Vinci smiles at him, the sort of beatific expression that covers iron determination. “I thought that might work,” she says, definitively pleased with herself. “Come on. You can hide in my workshop for a little while.” 

This does not reassure Merlin, as he feels there’s likely to be a price tag of conversation and emotional honesty on that hiding spot, but he rather suspects he doesn’t get a choice in the matter.

“There’s coffee and tea,” she says, as if this helps.

And, well, it might a little bit.

Not that he has the opportunity to find out if he _would_ go with Da Vinci on purpose given that bribery — she doesn’t actually let go of him, and he’s pretty sure she’s got a hydraulic clamp or something else suitably secure locking the gauntlet’s grasp where it is. The sole blessing of the kidnap is that, as Da Vinci is not actually very tall in this shape, Merlin is not hustled along and can enjoy a nice, leisurely walk by her side, as if this is totally a pair of friends out for a walk or... something. Da Vinci pats his hand with her free one, all put-on fondness, and beams to herself as they stroll.

Yep. Merlin’s stuck, and also in trouble. 

“Don’t make me barricade the door,” Da Vinci warns him as they come to her workshop. It’s half like the dream Merlin saw of it, and half unfamiliar. Da Vinci has made of it something warm and wooded, rather than the chill metallics of Chaldea at large, but the many and varied things that whir and shine and chirp from shelves and tables and floor are anything _but_ 16th century Italy.

“Would I _dare_ ,” Merlin says with mock innocence, pressing his free hand lightly to his chest as if stricken. 

“Yes, absolutely,” Da Vinci says, all prim offense, but she _does_ at least unclasp her gauntlet from his elbow. Merlin takes a step apart, dramatically rubbing the spot as if he’s been gravely wounded. 

She doesn’t roll her eyes, but it’s a near thing. Instead she goes for the kettle. “Preferences?”

“Cat memes, but like, not as far back as lolcats,” Merlin says, promptly picking the first _preference_ off the top of his head. “The modern trend toward theatrically verbose is better.”

“About hot drinks.” She _is_ smiling, though it’s the sort which in trying to hide from her mouth comes out in her eyes instead. 

“Oh,” Merlin says. “Coffee with chocolate, thanks.” He’s done enough dream sampling to be pretty confident about that. 

While Da Vinci’s humming over coffee press and boiling water, Merlin ambles aimlessly around the perimeter of her workshop, doing his best not to look like he’s about to make a break for the door. He reminds himself — where could he _go_? The only way to avoid her entirely would be to fling himself wholesale out into the Antarctic, and honestly, as far as survival tactics go, that’s a really poor one. 

Any escape he could make is just going to prolong the inevitable. Which is: Da Vinci is going to _talk_ to him, and probably demand that he come to visit on the regular, and... oooh, maybe if he’s lucky a shovel talk regarding Romani.

So in the end Merlin _doesn’t_ make a break for the door, only perches on one of the high stools at Da Vinci’s primary work table and draws one leg up, dangling the other where it just brushes the ground. Eventually she comes back over, sets a heavy ceramic mug down in front of him before hauling her own stool and mug over. “There,” she pronounces. “Caffè mocha. _Now_.”

Merlin picks the mug up, laces his fingers around it while Da Vinci sorts out whatever her _now_ is actually prelude to. It’s just as weighty as it looks, and the heat goes pleasingly right through him. 

“Care to explain why all I was getting from you was keysmashing?” is the question she finally settles on to begin with. Somehow she manages to have the stern feeling of looking down her nose at him despite being shorter and distant enough that she’s actually looking _up_ at him.

“Oh, you know,” Merlin says, taking one hand off the mug to gesture with it in a broad arc of _oh, whatever_. “You didn’t give me any other options for making it shut up without talking to you.” 

“That was rather the point,” she says, unimpressed. “ _And_ you nearly made Romani cry.”

Guilt plucks heart-strings somewhere inside Merlin, even when he tries to squash it. “I don’t know why you’re encouraging this,” he mutters down at his coffee. “It would have been better for everyone if you hadn’t.” Now he’s stuck. Now... 

Well, there’s probably going to be feelings, and at a certain point he’s probably going to stop being able to fight what’s trying to grow. Still. As long as he can. “And _don’t_ say it wouldn’t have been better for Romani,” Merlin adds, raising his head to eye Da Vinci sternly. “Before you interceded, he didn’t even know I’d been involved at all.”

Da Vinci taps fingers to her lips, and smiles a beneficent smile. “That wasn’t me,” she says. “You’ll want to take that one up with King Gilgamesh. I just filled in the details after the fact.”

Ah, hell. That _is_ an argument Merlin isn’t going to win. No wonder Gilgamesh had looked so smug. “You still didn’t have to encourage him.” Merlin wrinkles his nose at her. “Your own personal campaign of eroding safety barriers aside, what possible _good_ does it do anyone for Romani to be _getting to know_ me?”

“Ah, the mortifying ordeal of being known.” Da Vinci sips her drink. “A diversion, if you will. Merlin, what _are_ the limits on your clairvoyance? The literature conflicts with what the Mage’s Association has taught.” 

“That is a trap,” Merlin says firmly, though he isn’t sure what kind yet. There’s no way it can’t be, pretty much. “And I asked you first.”

“It’s an honest curiosity!” Da Vinci says, just the wrong side of defensive for Merlin to entirely believe it. “To answer your question, Ritsuka and Mash are already happy about you being here, it’s good for Romani to remember that he has authority to exercise, and he’s making his own choices with his own willpower. Also, we really might need you in the near future.” 

“ _Hm_ ,” Merlin says, expressing his great doubt through the weight of one syllable alone. It doesn’t seem like Romani making choices should be all that sacrosanct, and yet... and yet, the things they had spoken of last night. Freedom, and the losing and gaining thereof.

He supposes if he looks at it as being Romani’s trial subscription to free will, it’s... easier. Means Merlin doesn’t have to look as hard at anything that lies underneath it. “I’ll want to know more about that,” he says. “That last. To answer your question, though, there aren’t many limits! Although I’m pretty sure _someone_ has me down as being able to see all of the future, present, and past, which is a bit much.”

“But a bit more than a ‘magic telescope?’” Da Vinci sounds amused, not judgmental. “I thought something might have been off there. One of the oldest stories of you is of a foretelling.”

“The dragons,” Merlin says. “Yes.” He takes a drink of his coffee to fill the space while he finds words and then edits them down into something more flippant and carefree. It’s hotter than he expected, but the bitter-sweet under the heat makes him hum contentedly for a moment. “Past is easy, most of the time. Present is too. Future is... flexible. If you’re doing it on purpose, it changes too much to see _very_ clearly for more than a little bit at a time, but if you’re very good, you can cast a wide net and put the puzzle pieces together. It’s not very efficient except in very specific cases.” Another drink of coffee, this time prepared for the heat, and it’s even better. “Also, Avalon limits it pretty severely. Seeing what _is_ , is one thing, but the future tends to get overshadowed by the weight of the magic.”

There are only a few lies there. Little ones. Soft ones. 

“Not a big deal, anyway,” Merlin concludes. “And I don’t get any guidance out of it, I just get to see fragments. It’s like really bad TV.” 

Da Vinci taps her fingers on her mug, takes another sip herself, and then leans over to set it down. “Well, that’s good,” she says cheerfully. “For a moment there, I was concerned you’d seen something troubling about a future regarding you and Romani. Now that I know you’re just being a self-deprecating fatalist, I can go ahead and ignore all that.”

“...ah,” Merlin says blankly. Why _hadn’t_ he seen that coming, actually? The old fashioned way, with logical deduction about Da Vinci and the tricks she’s likely to pull. Mentally he runs through a list of excuses and distractions he hasn’t burned yet and might still be able to use on her.

...It’s starting to be a concerningly short list, such is the amount of time he’s been having to shove Da Vinci away from any soft contraband emotions. Mentally, Merlin adds a quiet _fuck_. Too much like telling to say aloud, but satisfying as all get-out in his head. 

“I’ll wait,” Da Vinci says serenely.

“Wait for _what_ ,” Merlin rallies, crotchety about it now that she’s given him an opening for anything other than defensiveness or admission of guilt. 

“For you to stop looking like I hit you in the face with a fish long enough to have a proper talk about your self-destructive tendencies.” Da Vinci smiles at him. It’s just a touch too aggressive to be comforting.

Merlin sighs _heavily_ , thumps his mug down on her workshop table, and dramatically leans back in his chair. He then remembers that it’s a stool, and keeps going into a long, precariously balanced sprawl as if he meant to do that, yep. “I really don’t get your investment,” he says. “We don’t _need_ to talk about it, if in fact there’s anything to talk about. You have to have better things to do.”

“I certainly have other pressing things to do,” Da Vinci agrees. “Which is why I’d appreciate it if you could hurry your midlife crisis along, please. Just accept that the awkward feeling of receiving nice things you don’t think you deserve is your new punishment, and eventually it’ll work out.”

With an almightily determined heave of abdominal muscles Merlin sits back up, crosses one knee loosely over the other with as much dignity as he has in his body. “Shouldn’t you be doing more threatening of me for daring to breathe lustily in Romani’s direction? I hear that’s traditional, these days.” Like it’s ever gone out of fashion, wedding parties used to be reasonably armed.

Da Vinci clicks her tongue, clearly unimpressed. “At least you’re admitting you’re attracted to him now,” she says. 

Quite technically, he supposes he did. Merlin resists a number of urges, most prominently the one demanding a facepalm, and instead leans over to reclaim his coffee. There’s still some left in the mug and he _will_ have it all, thank you. “I can admire my own handiwork,” he says. It comes out stiff and awkward even to his ears. 

“Mmhm.” Da Vinci shakes her head. “What I was going to say is, it occurred to me that you’re in a place where nearly everyone is very invested in Romani’s physical and emotional well-being, and as you’re dead-set on believing yourself unsuitable for this, I have no choice but to constantly and aggressively support you in your suit.” She beams at him again. It feels rather like a face laser, just in terms of brightness and impact. “Of course, you _could_ persuade me to return to threats on Romani’s behalf if you wound up with an entire passel of people rooting for you — say, oh, at least five...” 

That is not a number she’s chosen accidentally, and it doesn’t take Merlin long at all to match it to currently available Knights of the Round Table, less Mordred but plus their King. He grimaces at Da Vinci. “You know, I’m really not sure they were friends with me to begin with,” he tries. “Court mage, cambion, and so on. I’ve always been too shifty and fey for them to get to know me. And suspicious, besides!”

Da Vinci puts her smile briefly away behind a raised eyebrow. “You’re very quick to spin existing facts in a negative direction,” she says appraisingly. “Useful for obscuring the truth, but not for personal success. Why don’t you try that in the other direction?” 

If she hands him a self-help book, Merlin _swears_. “For all the time I’ve spent watching you lot, this is the one thing I don’t _get._ ” Merlin flings his free hand wide for a moment, taking in the whole — everything — of the situation. “This! This is _nonsense_. I’ve been running away from you all for months. I go out of my way to be an obnoxious asshole, and Ritsuka just wants more hugs. I ignore _you_ and you hack my computer to make me stop. I ignore Romani and he _hauls me out of Avalon by brute force_.” That one doesn’t so much sting as it does rub something raw and aching and not _quite_ unpleasant. “I’ve done everything I can to be an annoyance, more trouble than is worth bothering with, and you— you _masochists_ have somehow decided this means we’re friends now! What do I have to do to convince you it’s not worth it?” 

Da Vinci waits him out, all level stare and very faintly thoughtful frown. Even when Merlin’s done speaking she gives him another few moments just to make sure he’s actually done, lets a silence of rasping breath and self-consciousness stretch out between them as she pauses to finish her tea. The mug clunks on the table. She eyeballs Merlin again. “I’m not going to legitimize your stupidity by arguing with it,” she says, and sniffs delicately. “None of those are useful positions to hold, and I’m not about to waste perfectly good logic on someone who’s just going to ignore it. I’m just going to accept that you’re a hard case, and feed you.” 

That takes the wind out of Merlin’s sails rather emphatically. He frowns in turn, thinks it over. There has to be some _other_ argument that will work... she can’t just decide to _completely_ ignore him. “Didn’t you have something happening in Chaldea you wanted clairvoyant help with?” he tries eventually. It’s not an argument about _why the fuck friendship is happening_ , but it’s at least it’s not directly related to the issue, which would mean he can stop thinking about it.

He rather thinks he can feel Da Vinci judging him. “I’m not going to tell you about it until you come down to the kitchens and have a real, solid lunch with me,” Da Vinci says.

Merlin splutters. “You don’t even _need to eat._ ” 

The beatific smile reappears. “Not specifically, but it’s fun and we can spare the supplies for a change. And _you_ are still among the living, after all.”

He fumbles. “I’ll just ask Romani. Or— Holmes! He’s around here somewhere.” And he probably won’t make Merlin jump through any _friendship hoops_. The discomfort of his watching gaze might be worth it.

“I can tell anyone in Chaldea to tell you nothing long before you can physically get to them,” Da Vinci informs him, with smug serenity. “Now. Are you going to play ball?” 

Merlin considers it. Weighs running for the hills — or, well, at least running for the next corridor over — versus the uncomfortable realities of sitting down and eating lunch with Da Vinci. It’s a _bizarre_ thought. He’s not the kind of person who does casual lunch dates. A quick check of the kitchen, though, reveals it isn’t overly populated — just Emiya at the moment, and him occupied with cooking. 

Better than the cafeteria. Merlin can at least admit that he’s going to have to dip his toe _sometime_. Realistically, he can’t expect to hide in a closet for nine months. 

A small sacrifice now to prevent larger ones later. “Fine, fine,” Merlin says, stretching out dramatically. “If you’re so desperate for my company that you’re resorting to blackmail, I guess I can grace you with my presence! For lunch.” 

“Lunch defined as a period of at least forty-five minutes,” Da Vinci says. “I will not be accepting haggling at this time.” 

Merlin sighs again, but: he can take forty-five minutes. 


	3. his heart beats still

Da Vinci had been fiddling with something as they left her workshop, and Merlin hadn’t bothered to check what; but he can tell now that he _should_ have, as the kitchen’s population has mysteriously expanded by two somewhere in the short period while they walked down. Two very specific someones. 

“ _Oof_ ,” Merlin manages, as Ritsuka cannons into him and locks her arms behind his back, indicating that there will be no escape for him. “Hey, hey, I actually still need to breathe, you know.”

“Deal with it,” she says fiercely, and squeezes the breath out of him until Merlin heaves a dramatic gasp for air. Only then does Ritsuka step back a pace, with an air of disappointment, and look him over. “You talked to Doctor Roman, right?”

“Why is _that_ the first thing you ask?” Merlin wants to know. He edges past her, toward where Mash and Da Vinci have chairs tugged over to the small kitchen table. At the stovetop, Emiya has his back to them, and there’s rather a pointed set to the red-clad shoulders which Merlin is opting to interpret as _don’t talk to me_. Good. _Good_. Three of them is more than enough to be getting on with. “ _Yes_ , we talked.” They probably have to talk more. “I agreed, since he was so pathetic about it, to stay for a while.”

Ritsuka eyes him with a moderate suspicion as she scoots over to join them. “Isn’t he technically your Master now, or something? Don’t you _have_ to listen to him?”

“Nope,” Merlin says, smiling beatifically. Quite technically yes, if Romani forced the issue; but Romani’s not going to. That Merlin’s sure about, and is going to test just to make sure of. “No more than the Servants you have contracts with have to listen to you. In fact, probably even less than that.”

She grimaces. “But you’re staying.” 

“I’m on parole,” Merlin says seriously. 

Ritsuka flops down into a chair with a dramatic sort of sprawl. “It’s like you don’t _want_ to be here,” she says. “Why wouldn’t you want to be here? Chaldea’s great. Ooh, are those sandwiches from yesterday still in the fridge? That way we don’t have to bother Emiya while he’s in the middle of something else.”

“Maybe...” Mash hesitates over it, then gets up to go and check. “Looks like it.” 

“I can hear you, you know,” puts in Emiya, thumping a wooden spoon off a pot with what sounds like rather a pointed clang. “Although I’m not going to object to you feeding yourselves.”

“Thanks Emiya!” Ritsuka chirps, and then focuses right back on Merlin. “Well?”

“Well _what_?” Merlin says, feeling frankly rather targeted. He glances to the others nominally involved in this — interaction — in the vague hope of some distraction or intervention, but Mash is busy with carrying wrapped sandwiches to the table, and Da Vinci has her chin in her hand and is just smiling at him with a sort of awful serenity. 

“Why wouldn’t you want to be here?” Ritsuka sits up in her chair and leans toward Merlin. He hasn’t bothered to sit down yet, but he’s too slow to escape her terrible rib-poking. “Fess up, mister.”

Something judgmental about the company catches on the tip of his tongue. Something more truthful _also_ catches, and for several moments Merlin’s just tongue-tied, unable to find that happy medium. He occupies that time by taking a seat — unfortunately, the only option left is sitting between Da Vinci and Ritsuka, but he’ll just have to live with it. “Agoraphobia?” Merlin tries, and when that gets him a set of reasonably unimpressed looks, he decides that Mash is his new favorite and— uh-oh, where’s Fou. A quick scan of the environment suggests that the beastie is either nowhere nearby, or lying in wait somewhere completely concealed. 

“I mean,” Mash says slowly. “You _have_ been, um. Imprisoned? For a long time. But, Merlin... you seemed like you were doing all right in Uruk, and that was more people and space than you’ll see here.”

“Excellent point, Mash.” Da Vinci flashes a bright grin in her direction. “Gold star.”

Mash echoes the smile, if more quietly, and then all three of them go back to staring at Merlin for answers, which is hideously uncomfortable. He’s starting to reconsider the merits of this whole lunchtime thing. He can probably cadge whatever’s the problem with Chaldea now out of Da Vinci later... 

The trouble is they’re right. Uruk _hadn’t_ been completely awful, the impending apocalypse there notwithstanding. Merlin honestly hadn’t expected it to be so easy, slipping back into a place with sky and people and no restrictions on his movement but the order of the king. Sure, sometimes he had given up and ducked inside just for a taste of the familiar, but it wasn’t like he’d had more than one crisis about it. 

Then again, in Uruk it had just been a projection. A manifested shell, driven by his thoughts but not the truth of him. And he had held himself a little apart, even then, for fear of growing too attached to anything he already knew was probably doomed. 

Merlin takes a deep breath, and then heaves it out as another dramatic sigh. “Because I knew _this_ would happen,” he says instead, sweeping one arm wide. “Can you blame me for wanting to avoid a three-pronged haranguing to socialize? I’ve agreed to stay, I’m staying, at least one of you _is_ going to find frogs in your bed next morning, now if this isn’t going to be a friendly lunch I’ll take my chances with the ravening wilds of the rest of Chaldea.” 

It’s still a little more honest than he likes, but it’s enough of a dart that Mash looks away, and Da Vinci picks delicately at sandwich wrappings instead. Ritsuka lingers in pointed staring a few moments longer. “I like frogs,” she informs Merlin, as if he’s issued some challenge from which she refuses to back down. 

“Sounds like volunteering to me,” he says agreeably, and makes a mental note about a frog illusion as soon as he figures out where Ritsuka’s room is. Shouldn’t be hard. 

“Well, now I’m going to be disappointed if I don’t get any.” Ritsuka jabs a finger at him, something resembling an accusatory point, and then puts her hand down so she can invest in a sandwich. “So, if you’re staying for real, how long is it for? You said only a ‘while.’ You know you don’t _have_ to go away again, right?” She pauses. Looks worried. “Unless it’s magic. Do you only get out of Avalon for a bit?”

“Nine months,” Merlin says, and, “I really can’t stay here forever,” to cover his bases for the rest of those questions, leaving it vague enough it _could_ be magical or it could be his almost-screaming desire to run for the metaphorical hills. 

“In that case, we’ll just have to make sure you can if you want to,” Ritsuka says, mentally barreling on ahead through all the obstacles Merlin would love to set up. “And then make sure we’re so awesome you _want_ to stay.”

Yes. Merlin’s rather afraid of that, actually. He makes himself very interested in what fills the one sandwich that’s been left for him. Aha, cucumbers. He can’t quite tell what the meat is. “I think Romani’s got everything covered, honestly,” he says lightly. “Everything else is between him and me and Avalon.” When he sneaks a glance up Ritsuka is giving him a look that’s rather more thoughtful than Merlin likes.

Ritsuka’s insightful. It’s easy to forget, sometimes, but if he’s not careful she’s going to have him picked apart before anyone else does. 

“So!” Merlin says briskly, and rubs his hands together. “I admit I haven’t been keeping an eye on you lot lately, since I was busy with other things. Who wants to fill me in on what delightful adventures I’ve missed out on?” 

Da Vinci favors him with a look that strongly implies she _knows what he’s doing_ , but the girls are happy enough to launch into a recounting, pinballing between events and chaos-starters with all the helpful energy of a bundle of kittens. In the mean time Merlin eats — what a concept — and listens, and vaguely plots his getaway while keeping an eye on the clock in Da Vinci’s workshop, since there’s none in evidence that he can see in the kitchen without being supremely obvious about his clock-watching habits.

He gets away with this for a while, it turns out, absently squirreling away details about Ishtar and Gugalanna (apparently subject to visiting, unfortunately for everyone), and about the pseudo-Singularity that had lead to one Sherlock Holmes and associated criminal mastermind taking up residence in Chaldea. Merlin adds a few more people to his list of targets to avoid, just to be on the safe side, and while he’s thinking about it splits off some of his scrying focus to take a look at the entrances to the kitchen and make sure he’s not about to be snuck up on by someone he really doesn’t want to be...

People with bottomless pits for appetites are usually good about making friends with kitchens and cooks, after all.

Whoops, Ritsuka’s shaking his elbow. “—hey, Merlin?”

Merlin yanks everything back, physically and metaphysically, and gives her the most injured look he can. “What?” 

“Are you actually listening?” she wants to know. 

“I asked you to tell me things, didn’t I?” Merlin says, which everyone at the table can very well tell is not a yes, if they have functioning ears. He chances another quick glance at clock and hallways — no incoming, and he’s still ten minutes out from freedom if he wants Da Vinci to willingly tell him about Chaldea’s new and exciting issues. 

“Yeah, but then I asked you something.” Ritsuka makes a face at him. “Were you looking at something else?”

It’s really very tempting to say no, of course he wasn’t, he knows _exactly_ what they were talking about. But: he is in the company of two tricksters, at least, and one girl with all the will of the walls of Camelot, and so Merlin considers that it might be smarter to take smaller lumps in the interim rather than accidentally agree to something he’s going to regret later.

He can make smart decisions. Honestly. The previous twenty-four hours notwithstanding.

“Just getting the lay of the land here,” he says, and smiles cheerfully. “Chaldea’s a big place, you know! And I’ve never been here before. I don’t want to get lost.” 

“We can help with that,” Mash offers, which is a _different_ kind of trap. 

“I’ll learn better if I do it myself,” Merlin counters, trying not to sound too cornered. “Anyway, it’s not like I’m going to run away, right? It’s very cold out there. And I think Romani would probably be cross. The worst that can happen if you leave me to my own devices is a stubbed toe.” Or, you know, a run-in with King Gilgamesh in which Merlin forgets to mind his words and puts unwise things out into the air. That could also happen.

And that’s why he’s checking the hallways.

Mash shakes her head. “It’s not that we think you’re going to leave,” she says, very earnestly. (Da Vinci snorts pointedly.) “It’s just that it might be easier if you had company? And... it’s been a while since we’ve seen you, after all.” 

For all that she’s the least in-his-face, Mash proves to be the hardest to say no to, _somehow_. “Maybe,” Merlin says, drawing the word out long to fill time and space. He’s convinced there’s some other trap in her offer, he just isn’t sure what yet. It _could_ just be the trap of friendship.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Ritsuka says, and elbows Merlin. “Before you go running off to explore, I still had a question. Since the doctor cut his hair and all, I think you’re probably the person here with the longest hair now.”

Oh no. Merlin sees where this is going.

“ _Please_ can we help you braid it,” she says in a rush, and beams winningly. “Do you even have to wash your hair in Avalon?”

“Avalon provides,” Merlin says serenely, to gloss over the hodgepodge of magic he uses where the passive suffusion of magic doesn’t actually have an effect. It _does_ remind him that he’s going to have to attend to a lot of things he stopped taking for granted, though, even taking into account what his magic can compensate for. Huh. Maybe hundreds of years in magical solitary confinement really _weren’t_ good for him.

“That sounds like you need a shower.” Ritsuka eyes him with a shift to mild suspicion, and Merlin... honestly doesn’t know, so yeah, he might want to look into that. 

He checks the time — nope, still not free yet. A quick scan of the environs to make sure no one’s sneaking up on him, and— uh-oh. That’s a familiar face, incoming. Too familiar. Merlin might have to forfeit this round with Da Vinci, honestly. 

He’s really going to have to remember that his king gets on with this Archer.

Well, she still might turn off...? Merlin watches the hall a little longer just to see if she does, neatly ignoring the way Ritsuka waves her hand in front of his face. He maybe holds his breath just a little. 

...Nope. Merlin draws his focus back to the place he is, and slaps on a smile as he shoves his chair back and bounces to his feet. “Oh, look at the time,” he says cheerfully. “Gotta go, I definitely have— an appointment. That I forgot about. Until just now.” Oh, wow, he’s gotten _bad_ at this. 

“ _Hey_ ,” Ritsuka says, lunging to her feet in turn. “—wait, do you?”

He might. “I think Romani wanted me to have some kind of medical look-over,” Merlin says vaguely, which is true even if it’s not actually what he’s doing. “Don’t worry, it’s not like I’m _leaving_. I’ll see you around.”

“Merlin—“ Mash starts, but he’s already beating feet for the door that leads out into the cafeteria portion of this whole eating complex. It’s objectively the worse option at any normal point in time, given how many more people have the potential to be in a _common_ area, but it’s the only way to avoid Artoria, so Merlin’s doing what he has to do. 

Ritsuka catches at the tailing end of his hair. Merlin ducks out, waving his fingers over his shoulder and feeling — okay, maybe a _little_ bad, just a little, about the looks on Mash and Ritsuka’s faces. He’ll make it up to them later, but he _can’t_. He really can’t. 

Da Vinci’s look might actually be worse, though. She just looks like she _understands_ , which kind of makes Merlin want to crawl out of his skin entirely. Next thing you know he’ll be getting _sympathy._

There’s a few Servants and human staff in the seating area of the cafeteria. Merlin lengthens his stride, which draws more than a few looks — it occurs to him a bit too late that he is, in fact, a historically renowned _illusionist_ and could have done something about that but oh well, too late now. He’ll just have to live with some people knowing he was here. None of them look like people he _personally_ knows, anyway, so it’s fine. 

He makes it back out into the main halls of Chaldea before Artoria can get anywhere close to seeing him, and it just feels heavy in the pit of his stomach, not the relief it by all rights should be. Merlin slows and stops, stands in the middle of what could be any other stretch of smooth metal and laser-precise insignia, and takes a moment to really comprehend the depths of the corner he’s backed himself into, and all of the many and varied horrible life decisions that have led him to this point in the first place.

If he’s honest with himself, Merlin regrets a lot. Both ironically and unironically.

Well. No point standing around thinking about it for too long. If he does _that_ someone’s likely to run into him. Merlin gives some very brief consideration to actually doing what he heavily implied he was going to, decides against within thirty seconds, and starts looking at Chaldea’s supply closets again.

The most comfortable one is going to be a long walk, but what looks like the _second_ most comfortable one isn’t too far away from here. Great. Merlin heads in that direction, hands in his pockets, trying for all the world to walk like nothing is chasing him and he genuinely wants to be wherever he’s going to. 

It is not comforting to remember this is technically day 1. 


	4. there's a dream that i've had

The closet Merlin settles in is a linen closet. It’s got a nice home in the middle of the living quarters, though not too near any occupied rooms, and houses all the spare pillows, sheets, and blankets an observatory like Chaldea could ever hope to want. Merlin isn’t nesting — yet — but he drags a pillow down to ground level and arranges for himself a nice sitting space. Something that he can bear to spend a while in, because if this is the only place in Chaldea where he’s not going to get meaningful looks and threats of honest emotions, he’s going to be here for _quite some time_. 

It would be a good opportunity to catch up on his internal landscaping, check in on the sheep and the dream shaped like an incubus and see if they’ve eaten each other yet. Or had alarming sheep babies, or... something. He doesn’t know if it’s a lady sheep or not, actually. It’s never occurred to him to check. Anyway sheep aren’t _usually_ capable of parthenogenesis, but dreams can do strange things. Merlin might wind up with lambs.

There’s a chilling thought. 

Regardless of the suitability of the time, Merlin doesn’t throw himself into those dreams. He’ll probably just get stared at to have honest emotions, and he’s getting that enough in the waking world. He amuses himself surveying the world instead. Not Chaldea, although occasionally he glances back to see what the girls are up to — they’re dangerous, after all. Other than that, everything and nothing. A theatre performance here, a sunset over the sea there. An old familiar routine of skimming across surfaces looking for interesting things, beautiful things, and not really _thinking_ about anything. By design. Just appreciating the world.

What interrupts this is someone opening the door to the linen closet. Merlin squints at them, for a moment fuzzy-headed with the sudden snap-back to a here-and-now focus. He supposes his error was in assuming someone wouldn’t need spare linens, in _this_ place. 

Hang on, green eyes, cornsilk hair— uh-oh.

Sir Bedivere of the Round Table gently closes the closet door, leaving Merlin blinking owlish into the dim light and belatedly realizing that it might be time to panic. He’s not sure, but it seems like it might be a good response. If nothing else, he’s going to have to move supply closets. 

No invasion immediately happens, though. Merlin stretches carefully in the confines of the closet, gets up as if to flee. Then he hesitates, checks outside the door before opening it to summarily bolt through.

Good call, actually. Bedivere’s still standing there, a faint frown knitting his brows and his left hand half raised, curled as if to knock. He’s paused mid-motion, perhaps thinking on what to do with this information. However, he’s also blocking an egress. Merlin scans further down the passages and nearby rooms, to see if anyone’s going to be coming after Bedivere. 

No one immediately close, although somewhat further out the Nightingale is looking moderately purposeful with her stride. She might be heading this way or might not — there’s a few turnoffs she could take — but if she _does_ head this way, sooner or later she’ll see Bedivere standing here like someone stole his fish. 

And Bedivere, however well intentioned he might be one way or another, is a _terrible_ liar.

It might not be the stupidest thought he’s had all day, but it’s close. Merlin yanks the closet door open, lunges for Bedivere to snag him about the waist, and bodily drags him back into the closet with him. The door drifts shut after them and shuts with a gentle click. 

“ _Excuse me_ ,” Bedivere says, at a higher pitch than his normal register. 

Merlin doesn’t even have a good answer for that. He just disentangles himself from Bedivere, on the careful side, and feels around the walls for a light switch. It had been one thing when it was just him, but now that there’s _company_ they’re probably going to want light.

There actually is a switch by the door. Merlin’s fingers fumble over it before he figures the mechanism for it, and then there’s an amber light around the join between ceiling and walls, illuminating the shelves in low shadow.

Bedivere doesn’t make a break for the door, which is honestly very big of him. He’s recovered his dignity, more or less, and straightened his clothes, and now he’s just... sitting in the middle of the closet, regarding Merlin with a grave sort of distance. Suddenly Merlin has the feeling that it’s not that Bedivere is stuck in here with him; Merlin is trapped in the closet with _him_.

Well. He knows he’s not going to be able to avoid everyone forever. This is at least a controlled situation with only one person. It... might be the best he’s going to get.

“I had heard you were here,” Bedivere says carefully, linking his hands together. The silver of the Aírgetlam glints dully in the low light. “Although I... hadn’t expected to find you in a linen closet?”

To be fair, probably no one expects to find Merlin in a linen closet. He leans against the door, slides down it to a seated position, officially giving up his last hope of escape for the immediate future. “It’s a comfortable closet,” he says by way of defense. “And I haven’t been here _that_ long. I think it’s still less than twenty-four hours.”

“News travels fast, in a closed environment.” Bedivere looks down, then to the side, making some sort of try at inspecting the linens instead of giving Merlin the third degree. It’s almost considerate.

The awkwardness might actually give Merlin a rash, never mind that he created the problem himself. “Sooooo,” he says, putting at the very least _something_ into the quiet to take up the space while he thinks about next steps. “...come here often?”

Bedivere is naturally too good a person to sigh exasperatedly at Merlin, but there’s definitely an undertone in his next exhalation. “As much as any person needs to use a linen closet,” he says then. “All of us have found _some_ little way to pitch in. I understand that the staffing crisis is not so dire as it was before the restoration of humanity, but nevertheless... it’s good to be of a concrete use.”

“Mmhm.” Merlin makes a noncommittal noise about that concept and twiddles his thumbs. There’s an invisible countdown clock, one he can’t even guess at the time on, until Bedivere takes matters into his own hands and _says something._ The pressure of trying to beat that and put the conversation on Merlin’s own terms is, regrettably, making it harder to think of delicate words that will get what he wants out of this, and nothing more. 

Item: This Bedivere, Servant though he is, has the silver arm Merlin made for him from Excalibur, and so must necessarily be the one who washed up in Avalon. That’s fine; he’s not going to be noticeably different from the Bedivere Merlin knew in life, since as far as he could tell the only difference in their universes was the choice Bedivere made, or didn’t make, at the end of everything. Certainly he doesn’t seem to have had any issues fitting in with the local Knights.

Item: ...but it’s difficult to say without asking him just how _much_ of Camelot this one remembers, or indeed if he remembers many of his circumstances at all. 

Item: wait, Bedivere might be talking to him. Merlin shakes himself and pays attention.

There’s a tolerantly patient expression on Bedivere’s face, which is frankly the worst kind to be faced with. “Scrying again?”

“Something like,” Merlin says, to cover for his miles of internal conflict. “What were you saying?”

“That I wondered if your reasons for occupying this linen closet might be avoiding those people you believe you have wronged,” says Bedivere, without any variance from his quiet, serene sincerity. Merlin becomes aware that the invisible countdown clock probably went off about a minute ago. 

“Ah,” Merlin says, and, “Now why would you think that? As I happen to be a notoriously unrepentant troublemaker.”

“With all due respect, Merlin,” Bedivere starts. That sort of phrasing is never a great sign, on account of coming from people other than Bedivere the amount of respect they generally feel due is very close to zero. “...you’re hiding in a linen closet.”

Ah. Right. That little detail, inescapable for the fact of Merlin having just yanked Bedivere _into_ said linen closet like a particularly aggressive pitcher plant. Merlin finds once again the feeling of being trapped and seen, all the more unsettling for that he expects some weight of judgment to follow and it _hasn’t_ yet, so all he can do is try to predict where it will fall.

Bedivere waits. In the end Merlin actually does manage to get words out, though he has to stare at the folded sheets slightly to the left of Bedivere and pretend there’s no one else there to even approach that in the first place. “Do you know the feeling?” he asks, slow and careful, a far cry from his normal glibness. “Of hoping for forgiveness and knowing you won’t be able to bear it, all at once?”

The breath Bedivere lets out is soft, and perhaps flavored with regret. “Every day,” he says. “Every day, when I was wandering—”

A stronger man than Merlin, honestly. Merlin still can’t manage to look at his face, coward that he is. He doesn’t know what he’ll see there, and can’t chance it’ll strike at his heart. “That’s why I’m here,” he says, intent on getting through this conversation as fast as possible. “...In this closet, that is. Chaldea is— a different matter. I didn’t think to see any of you again, when everything was over; and now...”

“You are afraid,” Bedivere says. It almost sounds wondering. “Yes. I understand.” There’s a brief swish of motion from his direction, which almost makes Merlin look over. “To think I once thought I couldn’t understand you at all.”

Merlin almost laughs. _Almost_. He’s tried to hold himself apart for— oh, so many reasons. “And yet you know what it looks like when my mind is somewhere else,” he points out. He’d let some unwise things slip his tongue when he spoke to Bedivere in Avalon — he absolutely isn’t going to ask if Bedivere remembers them. It’s just...

Well. Mortals come, and mortals go, and humans have been fighting each other to the death ever since there were things to get mad at each other about. Camlann would have been no worse than any other fight if Merlin hadn’t cared so terribly much. 

Cared, and done nothing.

“I suppose I do, at that,” Bedivere agrees. Distantly. Gently. “Merlin...”

Ugh, pregnant silences. “What?”

“I wanted to thank you.” 

That’s what gets Merlin finally, makes him focus on Bedivere in surprise. There’s nothing judgy in his expression, nothing that says Bedivere has anything approaching the opinions Merlin has of himself. Just a calm sort of peace. The face of a man who’s come to terms with his life and his choices. 

Bedivere taps his right arm gently with the flesh-and-blood fingers of his left. “You made it possible to finish what I started,” he says, still with that terrible calm. “To make right what I couldn’t undo. I don’t... remember all of it, clearly. But I remember what you did for me, and I remember how hard it was to keep moving through. And I remember the peace. You said it was a cruel thing you asked of me, but Merlin— for all that it cost, this was the kindest thing you could have done for me. You gave me the chance.”

Merlin doesn’t know when he pushed himself back against the door, as if he could flee this earnestness, or when his throat closed up such that even if he could figure out what to _say_ to this, he wouldn’t be able to get the words out at all. It’s a gift he hadn’t looked for, this easy dismissal of his wrongs. If he’s honest with himself... well. He hadn’t expected Bedivere to hate him for anything, except maybe the issue of not exercising his foresight like he should have. 

But he really hadn’t expected to be thanked for sending a man to fight against his brothers to win the privilege of his death, either. 

“I wasn’t in any shape to realize it, when I last saw you,” Bedivere says, “but you’ve been alone a very long time, haven’t you? The year being what it is...”

Merlin has no cogent answer. He just nods.

“I shall ask the other knights to give you some time, then.” Bedivere mirrors that nod, himself brightens with the clarity of putting a plan together. “And ask their patience on your behalf. It is the least I can do.”

The shape of that plot makes itself clear to Merlin. He can’t say he’s entirely fond of the idea of painting himself as the poor shut-in suddenly overwhelmed by the mere presence of people, but... if it works, it works, right? He can take shameless advantage, and meet others on _his_ terms, rather than because he’s been barged in on while hiding in a linen closet. 

Something further unpicks itself, and Merlin’s throat clears for the purposes of suspicion. “...You’re going to mention where you found me, aren’t you.”

Bedivere smiles sunnily. “How else could I make clear the gravity of your troubles?”

Merlin opens and closes his mouth for a moment, considering protesting. If it gets him out of immediate conversation... well, it’s not like he doesn’t deserve it, but he also knows he’s never going to hear the end of it once—

Once _what_? How interesting a thought that is. Shouldn’t it be a sort of grace, to never hear the end of it, if it means there are people teasing him fondly with it? Merlin opts, in the end, not to object, that strange thought bubbling under his sternum with an ungraceful lightness. “I’d be indebted, Sir Bedivere,” he says instead, as lightly as he can make it, and hopes they can both pretend his voice didn’t crack.

Bedivere dips his head in acknowledgement, still smiling. “I cannot promise you forever, of course,” he says. “As I noted. News of your presence has already spread.”

“Of course,” Merlin mutters, with some disappointment. He’s well aware of that. On some level, he should have been aware ever since he got here that he can’t avoid speaking with people forever.

He can sure try for several days, though, and every day more of not having to deal with his emotions is... well, another day of minimizing pain, he guesses. That seemed more compelling a motivation yesterday.

Bedivere doesn’t immediately try to leave the closet, potentially because Merlin is still in front of the door. Instead he sits peacefully. As if, in this moment, there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than hiding in a linen closet with Merlin.

There’s something warm about that. Merlin looks outside, scans the halls in the immediate vicinity to see if everyone’s gone, or if there are about to be further interlopers. Probably someone is going to notice Bedivere isn’t at whatever chore he volunteered for _eventually_. He’s... almost disappointed to find that the coast is clear. Still... there’s no reason to stand in Bedivere’s way. 

Not moving is easier than moving. Merlin sits where he is for another several minutes, tentatively appreciating the company of someone who isn’t trying to lecture him or demand emotional honesty from him, and it’s only when the sense of needing to say something begins to outweigh the tentative peace that Merlin finally gives up and scoots to the side. “Hall’s empty, by the way,” he says, and tries to ignore the nagging sense of imminent loss. That’s stupid. He’s stupid. Everyone in Chaldea is horrifyingly easy to find, especially when he doesn’t want to see anyone.

“Hm? Oh.” Bedivere stretches, and gets carefully to his feet before turning to peruse the shelves. “I suppose it is a bit cramped in here.”

So polite. Too polite. “Well, I didn’t expect company,” Merlin says. “Next time I’ll bring out the good tea-things, how’s that.”

There’s a quiet laugh, almost muffled against the sheets Bedivere’s taken down from one of the higher shelves. “Rather, I think it would be preferable to share tea somewhere designed for it,” he says, turning. “However— that can wait. At your convenience.” There’s a firm undertone to that, something steely which Merlin takes to mean that while he doesn’t have a _deadline_ , he should also not take forever about it.

He’ll get over how weird this is eventually. “I’m sure I can find you,” Merlin says, and moves so Bedivere can get out of the door.

There’s no farewell, not really; it is understood, by Merlin’s spite and Bedivere’s manners, that they’ll see each other again in the not-too-distant future. And in the mean time... 

Merlin still feels warm. Touched, he thinks the word is. He sits in that closet for a long time, just contemplating the feeling. 

* * *

He doesn’t have a complete grasp of time himself, but he knows where the clock in Da Vinci’s workshop is, and he checks in on that occasionally. Merlin hasn’t decided if he’s going to go back to Romani’s room this evening or not — at the very least he’s pretty sure he should move to another closet. Then again, Bedivere hasn’t ratted him out, and there’s definitely a spare pillow or two on the top shelves in this closet.

But. _But_. 

He’s got a lot of nagging feelings tugging at him, is the but. Frustrating, annoying things. Wants. Desires for warmth, and the presence of another person — it’s not that he isn’t familiar with loneliness, and the art of being alone, but now that there are actual _options_ it’s so much harder to resist. Also among the nagging feelings is guilt, the idea that he really _shouldn’t_ hide in a closet for several days if he wants to hold to the spirit of the agreement he reached with Romani.

If he wants to hold to it. _Get to know him_. 

The longer Merlin thinks about the idea, the harder it is to be rational and stop himself. 

He waltzes back into Romani’s room sometime past dinner, finds Romani sitting at his desk and the vague bubbling of the electric kettle on the table serving as a neat tell that Merlin’s picked exactly the right time to come back. “Ah,” Romani says, looking up from his laptop with some surprise. “You’re back.”

“I don’t really enjoy hypothermia,” Merlin says, doing a quick circuit of the room for no other reason than that he needs something to do with himself that _isn’t_ look at Romani. “Anyway, I’m pretty sure we had a deal or something, right? Getting to know each other is probably harder if I’m hiding in the vents. Also, are you still working? I thought you people had shifts for this kind of thing.” He pauses, looking down at the kettle. It clicks off, the light going dull, to signify its readiness. “Do I have to tell Da Vinci on you?” The thought of Merlin being able to direct Da Vinci’s considerable scheming spite at _other_ people for a change, potentially with the bonus experience of getting to watch the results, is actually a very pleasant imagining.

“I’m just finishing one thing,” Romani says, maybe a touch defensively. There’s the patter of keys. “There might be an extra mug in the bathroom cupboard if you want tea.” 

Sure. Tea. Merlin adventures, peering that way and rustling through cabinets for something that could conceivably be used as a vessel for a hot beverage. He nobly restrains the urge to snoop through Romani’s other things — well, what could he possibly get out of that, anyway, intimate knowledge of what kind of scents Romani likes? There’s no possible use for that knowledge that isn’t very personal and very sensual, and Merlin’s just going to step out of the bathroom with this mug rather than follow _that_ line of thought.

As he comes back into the room proper, movement from Romani’s direction catches his eye — Romani’s hair is moving? And then there’s a low purr- _chirp_ and Merlin freezes as what he’d taken for Romani’s hair resolves into a lot more rainbows and two wide dark eyes. A pink tongue flickers — a yawn displays teeth that absolutely _should not_ fit in that tiny cat-mouth. 

Merlin holds very still. “Are you aware your scarf is yawning?” 

“Ah, is he?” Romani lifts a hand to pet, an absently delicate rubbing around Fou’s ears. The yawn ceases, and Fou reverts to just staring at Merlin. Even from across the room, the coiled tension and potential for violence is clearly evident. “He’s been sleeping for a while, I didn’t want to disturb him.” 

There’s a soft _fou_ as punctuation. Fou’s ears flicker under the careful scritches, but he doesn’t move. Probably because the petting is too good to be worth abandoning it in favor of murder attempts. 

Ah, come to think of it, he’d been remarkably... well, less than murdery, earlier. Still given to violence, sure, but the sort of violence that rings to Merlin as possessive, rather than a genuine desire to see the subject gone from the world. He’s not sure what it says about him that he can make that nuance, but he’s sure it’s just as healthy as all of his other emotional choices. 

Carefully, Merlin sidesteps toward the kotatsu, not taking his eyes off Fou in the meanwhile. “That seems fair,” he says. “Where do you keep your tea?”

“Um,” Romani says, a bit sheepishly, and, “I have teabags in the drawer here.” 

Merlin considers this. Looks at Fou. 

Fou stretches out his front paws, flexes them luxuriously. Claws flicker in and out. 

“I’ll be over here, then,” Merlin announces, puts his mug on top of the table, and occupies himself with investigating the electric kettle rather than chancing the Fou perimeter. 

“I’ll be done soon.” Romani goes back to his work, although Merlin can see there’s an intermittent reaching-up to pet the beast across his shoulders. Fou punctuates this with little chirps and contented noises, but even when Merlin isn’t looking at the pair of them, he can feel the laser-weight of Fou’s stare at him. That’s... probably not going to stop any time soon.

Merlin spares maybe thirty seconds to feel wistfully sorry for himself about lost petting privileges before he reminds himself that a, it was for the best, and b, it’s self-indulgent in the worst way to pity himself for choices he made, knowing full well what the consequences would be. That’s enough of _that_. He can take a little recreational clawing, he’ll just do his best to avoid the worst of it. 

“You know the water’s going to go cold again,” Merlin says eventually. “It’s pretty much only lukewarm now.” He could probably be more obnoxious.

“You can come over here and get the tea, you know,” Romani says, not turning away from his computer. 

“Pass.” Merlin sighs, _pointedly_ turns the kettle back on, and slumps over backward. Floor seating is a concept he enjoys for a number of reasons, and right now the primary reason is because he can sprawl across the floor making himself an obstacle for the foreseeable future without any particular difficulty. “You’ve got fifteen minutes, then I’m calling Da Vinci.” 

This is an empty threat, given that he doesn’t currently possess any kind of device to do that on, and also isn’t looking at a clock so will have no idea when fifteen minutes have passed. Romani shouldn’t in theory know it’s empty, but he snorts anyway, and is _definitely_ not taking the bluff seriously at all. “Don’t you think that’s a bit ironic, coming from _you_?”

Merlin thinks about it, and links it back to _if you haven’t answered me by 8 pm I’m going to make you_ , or whatever the exact wording Romani had used was. Yeah, all right, in that context he can see why his threats are absolutely toothless here. Of the two of them, one of them has proven both willing and capable of followthrough, and that one person isn’t Merlin.

“It might be,” Merlin says at length, agreeably. “But you’re still working too much.”

There’s an aggrieved sigh, but Romani doesn’t actually _say_ anything. Merlin knows better, finally, than to assume he’s won anything at this point, so he just stays quiet and examines the ceiling and feels the weight of Fou watching.

Eventually he hears the sounds of a laptop closing, of cloth rustling and a drawer sliding open and closed. Out of sheer spite Merlin remains precisely where he is, sprawled out and in the way. 

As a result, the only warning he gets is Romani’s soft laugh and a murmured “ _Don’t maim him, please_ ,” before a very fluffy weight is dropped on his chest. Merlin coughs under the impact, squawks in alarm with the subsequent realization, and flails wildly in the attempt to get up and dislodge his new guest before any further pain can be dispensed. Fou squalls too, mostly to the tune of Merlin’s attempts to free himself, and as soon as Merlin touches him to try to shove him off, Fou limpets to that arm, front claws dug in and back feet braced. 

Merlin recognizes prime kicking posture and goes very still again. He has not actually managed to get up.

“He’s only clawing because you are,” Romani says, voice moving around the room as he does. “Try being gentle.”

“I don’t think you understand what a cat with violence on the mind looks like,” Merlin tells him, barely breathing in the effort to do so. “This _darling beastie_ is going to claw me whether I flail or not.” 

“ _Fou_.” 

“And yet you’re laying still,” Romani points out.

“I’m being threatened into compliance.” Merlin can feel the claws in his forearm, the press of paw-pads further down where hind legs are ready to maul. But... is it him, or are those claws less deep than they might otherwise be?

Hm. Weird. 

“Stay put for a minute anyway,” Romani says with a sigh. “Are you bleeding?”

“Um...” Merlin flexes his hand carefully, feels muscle and tendon shift under Fou’s tender care. “Maybe? Can’t tell.”

Romani moves off again. Merlin opts to tempt fate by bringing his free hand around to touch Fou’s fluffy parts rather than his sharp parts, and— ah. No. Fou starts making a noise like an upset lawnmower as Merlin’s fingertips graze his fur, and his claws prickle incrementally more. 

In the interests of self-preservation, Merlin changes his mind about petting Fou. 

Somewhere in the bathroom, Romani’s making noises like he’s getting something out. Fou starts, improbably, licking Merlin’s arm, all raspy tongue and just a _hint_ of fang, possibly to keep Merlin in line. It’s not entirely a pleasant feeling, but Merlin doubts that it’s supposed to be, either. 

When Romani comes back, he sets what sounds like a bottle on the table with a heavy clunk, then leans over Merlin and Fou. “See?” he says, a little pointedly. His ponytail falls over his shoulder as he reaches down, gets one gentle hand under the weight of Fou’s rump and the other under Merlin’s shoulder. “Push yourself up with your other arm. On three—”

Between the two of them, Merlin actually does get vertical without further bloodshed, and the press of Romani’s hand doesn’t _actually_ leave a brand on his shoulder through his robes, only generates some heat-based hallucination because Merlin isn’t used to physical proximity. Merlin lets his breath out in a quick sigh. “Okay,” he says. “I guess I’m not mauled.”

Under Romani’s touch, Fou even lets go of Merlin’s arm; but instead of fleeing up Romani’s shoulder like Merlin expects, Fou commits a quick feat of feline acrobatics and prances down to settle on his thighs. “...Huh,” Merlin says, staring down at faintly rainbowed fur and a capelet he very well remembers sewing. 

If he’s honest, he’s surprised Fou’s still _wearing_ it. A creature as clever as Cath Palug, in the company of this many people with thumbs, surely has ways to get clothes off. Merlin reaches absently, almost habitually, to straighten it— 

Angry lawnmower noises again. Merlin does not, in fact, do what he had planned. And then realizes something else. “I’m trapped,” he says blankly, to the room at large.

“Good,” Romani says from just to his left. It’s a bit dry, perhaps a bit strained, and when Merlin actually looks over the wry expression on his face is very much impatient-doctor. “Let me see that, animal scratches aren’t something to be cavalier about.” 

“I’m fine,” Merlin says; but he doesn’t fight it when Romani picks up his wrist and pushes back the sleeve of his robe to examine the marks left. 

“You _are_ bleeding.” Romani frowns, not at Romani, but down at Fou. Merlin could have told him that’s going to be a useless exercise; the fuzzy little reprobate just tucks his tail around himself and threatens to make biscuits on Merlin’s thigh. 

“It’s really fine.” Merlin tugs gently at his arm, seeing if he can get it back.

Romani’s grip on his wrist tightens. Merlin desists. “Let me,” he says firmly. There’s no power in it, no sense of command, nothing to say Merlin _has_ to, but.

...all right, he can acknowledge that he might be a _little_ starved for touch, if just having this, businesslike as it is, is enough to make some part of him want to curl up and snuggle down like the cat in his lap. 

He’s not going to say it out loud, but he guesses it’s a thing that’s happening now. And when Romani does let go of him to open his first-aid kit, Merlin doesn’t snatch his hand away. 

“I still think you’re making a big deal for a relatively little thing,” he says, as Romani cleans the little scratches. It stings, but Merlin isn’t about to flinch for something _this_ tiny, come on. “It’s only a little blood, I could just wash it off and be fine.” 

“Most animals carry bacteria in their mouths and under their claws.” Romani keeps doing what he’s doing, his only pause to reach for whatever he’s going to put on the scratches. “To the point that there are some creatures who don’t kill with the bite itself, but the infection that develops afterward. I don’t know what kind of bacteria a phantasmal is going to carry, but while you’re under my care we’re not taking chances about it. There.” 

The whole thing hasn’t even taken that long — Merlin quashes whatever weird, weird disappointment was sneaking up on him, and looks at his arm. There’s no sign of blood any more, and lingering only two brightly colored bandages over the worst of it. They _seem_ to have adorable cartoon characters on them. 

That touches Merlin in a very strange place. He glances back up at Romani, raises his eyebrows. “Are these standard issues for the medical division in Chaldea?”

Romani clears his throat, and his cheeks flush a little darker as he puts the kit away. “They’re just what I had on hand. If it’s a problem...”

Merlin bites his tongue on a laugh. “No, no, I’m just wondering.” He flexes his fingers absently, just to see if anything’s going to hurt or pull, and the answer is no. Accordingly, he shakes his sleeve down and looks down at his lap. 

Fou is still sitting there, front paws shifting absently back and forth where they rest on Merlin’s leg. Merlin supposes he should be grateful the claws aren’t out, but he’s also sure that as soon as he moves he’s going to regret it. He looks helplessly at Romani. “I’m still stuck.”

“That seems like your problem,” Romani says, arch about it. “I’ll make the tea, shall I?”

Merlin watches him putter around the room, switching the kettle on again, returning the first-aid kit to its original position, shutting his laptop down finally. Unfortunately, this means Romani catches Merlin watching when he comes back to finally settle down at the table. 

He doesn’t say anything about it, though, just tilts his head at Merlin in some quiet inquiry. Kind of a shame — Merlin had half been hoping for another blush about the whole thing — but at least he’s not being called out on watching. “Here,” Romani says eventually, nudging the mug Merlin had picked out across the surface at him. “Tea.”

Merlin dares very gently to scoot a little bit further in — Fou makes a cranky sound and hunches down, but doesn’t flee, and when Merlin stops Fou doesn’t inflict claws on him, only lashes his tail from side to side and starts licking his paws in what sure looks like an attempt to regain his composure. “Thanks.” 

The tea’s a little bitter, but it’s a drinkable temperature right off, which is nice. And it gives Merlin something safe to do with his hands. 

“You know,” Romani says at length. “I’m pretty sure I said I wanted you to have a medical exam today.”

“Oh yeah,” Merlin says vaguely, as if he’d forgotten rather than completely ignored it. “Try again later, I guess. What’s the point, anyway? I’m fine.”

“So you’ve said. Multiple times.” Romani’s mouth quirks with faint amused resignation. “If you actually _are_ fine, we can use whatever we find as a baseline against some hypothetical future time when you aren’t. Chaldea isn’t always a safe place, after all, despite our best efforts, and I don’t think we have any cambion records at all. And if you actually _aren’t_ fine, and are just saying you are because you’d prefer to be hiding in the vents, then we’ll figure out how best to help you. It really isn’t a campaign to make you miserable.”

Merlin feels distinctly uncomfortable now, itching with the sheer force of that earnest sincerity directed at him. “I have been a social butterfly today,” he informs Romani. “No vents involved.” 

He’s just going to leave out the part where Holmes and Da Vinci trapped him by using the promise of the vents. It’s fine. The supply closets are safer. 

“I’m glad.” Romani sounds sincere about that, too. He offers a quiet smile as Merlin studies him, trying to work out all the underlying motivations. “Truly and seriously. You should have multiple people you can depend on here — as much as I summoned you for my purposes, that’s not all there is in life, and it wouldn’t be a good balance if I were your only...” A hesitation. Merlin thinks the unsaid word might be _friend_ , and grudgingly has to admit that not saying it is the wisest thing Romani’s done this evening yet. “...connection,” Romani finishes delicately. “I _do_ still want you to come in for a medical exam, done by someone who isn’t me, but that can wait for tomorrow, now.”

“I sure hope so,” Merlin says. He looks down — Fou is still there. Yep. Carefully he drinks of his tea again, fidgets between his hands. “So, uh. ...Getting to know each other, huh.” How do people do that on purpose? He knows Romani’s conversations with an internet idol, knows the broad sketches of the deeds of King Solomon. Knows the shape of him caught in other people’s dreams, the fragile meanings Merlin himself isn’t looking at.

But all that, and he can’t figure out Romani’s _why_ in looking at Merlin and deciding he wants to know more about that. So... maybe Merlin can work that out with some careful sleuthing and question-games.

And then... Merlin carefully doesn’t look at the _and then_. Because it’ll either be dissuade Romani, or give in, and— 

He doesn’t know which one he’ll choose.

“That’s the idea,” Romani says, with a laugh that sounds a little bit nervous. “I guess— did you have questions?”

 _Why are you like this_ , for one. Merlin bites his tongue over that one and sets his tea down so he can lounge back on his hands instead. “ _Am_ I ever getting my own room?”

This time Romani snorts, and whatever awkward tension was there dissipates. “That doesn’t seem like a getting-to-know-you question. You were gone all day, so I didn’t have the chance to talk to you about it. We _do_ have unassigned rooms, so one can be set up for you...”

The instinctive _yes_ isn’t there, though Merlin reaches for it and realizes only belatedly that the escape isn’t forming on his tongue. “Dunno,” he says instead. “This is cozy enough, if you don’t mind me being here. Besides, one or both of us is just going to get annoyed at having to track me down all the time. Let me hide in the closet sometimes without demanding my presence and we’ll call it square, maybe. It’s not like I can’t let you know when I _do_ want my own place.”

And he got away with hiding in a supply closet nearly all day himself. He bets he can do it again, and the challenge of evading people all over Chaldea to keep himself sharp might actually be better than having his own room. A room is _predictable_. If he has his own place, people will start to think they can reliably find him there, and eventually they might even be right.

Romani stares at him for several long moments. 

“Something on my face?” Merlin tries.

“Huh? Oh.” Romani shakes his head. “No, it’s just— I didn’t expect that.”

“I’m a man of many surprises,” Merlin declares, with all due ego. “Anyway, I would have thought you’d be pleased to keep me where you can see me.”

“I _am_ , just surprised.” Romani’s face scrunches up briefly. “Anyway, um. Thanks?”

“Don’t thank me yet, I’m a terrible roommate,” Merlin says easily. “You’re welcome to ask me whatever, too, in the spirit of cooperation or whatever, but I can’t promise I’ll tell you the whole truth.”

Something in Romani’s gaze sharpens, and Merlin finds himself abruptly _aware_ of the weight of that golden gaze on him like he wasn’t a second ago. The difference isn’t, perhaps, much — a few muscles, the slant of Romani’s head — but the back of Merlin’s neck prickles, and his skin feels too warm. 

“I think that may defeat the purpose.” Romani sounds cautious, but the way he leans forward on the table makes Merlin think there’s something more coming. “All right, then. There was something I was wondering...” 

He trails off. “Yes?” Merlin prompts, now curious enough to sit up instead of lounging indolently.

“Magi*Mari,” Romani says. “Obviously I know you’re her, but what I mean is— her videos, her pictures. Did you manipulate images, or _were_ those you?”

An interesting question to start with, in Merlin’s opinion, and one Romani really should have known better than to ask him, because there’s no way he’s going to make this entirely comfortable or unembarrassing. “I’m _very_ talented,” Merlin says, without an ounce of shame, and rearranges some external furniture. So to speak. Pink hair, stardust, the softer edges he’d have had if he was a woman. Costume design definitely inspired by magical girl animes. Magi*Mari winks, blows Romani a kiss. “Come on, Photoshop would have been _way_ too much effort. I’m not that much of a tryhard.”

Delightfully, Romani starts blushing again, and sputtering like he might be _trying_ to make words. Aiming to cut that off at the pass, Merlin leans even more forward, presses his elbows in just enough to make the currently equipped cleavage both impressive and tempting. With this amount of glitter and artfully arranged shadow, it’d take the strongest of men to look away, he’s pretty sure. “Can I help you, Romani~?”

_“Fou.”_

Whoops. Merlin remembers that there’s a ticking time cat in his lap just as claws start to dig into his leg, and in a hurry he stops leaning forward and lets the transformation lapse, his natural coloration and shapes taking over easily. “—Anyway,” he says. “That should answer your question.”

Romani has covered his face with his hands. Aw. But Merlin _wanted_ the blush. “It did, thank you,” Romani says through his fingers, with a remarkable if strained politeness. “You don’t need to do that again. That is— I think I said, but Magi*Mari’s not what I want from you. It wouldn’t be fair to you.” 

“I got the impression.” Romani’s so _ethical_ it makes Merlin’s teeth hurt, but the whole thing is sweet, honestly. “This is pretty much my base form, anyway. Most incubi and succubi, as far as I know, don’t really have any one shape that’s theirs, just something they like. But...”

“But you’re half-human.” Romani fills this in without Merlin having to finish the sentence, and he looks up with his composure regained, his blush fading. “So you have some things that are naturally yours. I thought that might be the case.”

How much contemplation of that _has_ Romani done, Merlin wants to know. And then doesn’t, on the off chance it might reveal to him how much time and effort has been contributed to the mere _thought_ of him. “‘Course I do,” he says instead, with an offhanded shrug. “ _And_ it means I never have to decide what face to put on in the morning, which always seemed like it must be a drag.”

“Even demons of lust must have their preferences, I think,” Romani says; but he says it with an oddly distant, thoughtful expression that has Merlin leaning in with interest. Not far enough to provoke Fou, this time. “Perhaps developed, over time, much as humans come to like one outfit or another, one color or another...”

“How many lust demons have _you_ known?” Merlin wants to know.

The question sparks Romani out of his distant thinking, and he shakes his head. “Oh— a couple. Those I did seemed to have some preferences, I think; at least, it didn’t _seem_ like they were trying to seduce me.” 

Merlin needs to know now more than ever. “Why not?”

“Well, if they had been, I would have been attracted to them, wouldn’t I?” Romani asks, very reasonably. “But there wasn’t anything like that.”

That seems like far too simple an answer to be correct. Enough that Merlin very nearly wants to take it as a challenge, and indeed he’d thought about this remedy for the problem before — seduce Romani under Mari’s shape just to get it out of his system, depart when the fascination with what can’t be had inevitably fades once it’s in hand...

But Romani’s explicitly said he doesn’t want Magi*Mari, which means Merlin’s going to have to find another way around. 

“You’re very boring, for King Solomon,” Merlin informs him. —Oh, there’s a thought, actually. Maybe more details on previous encounters with lust demons are written down somewhere Merlin can read up on them. The internet probably knows; he’ll check in sometime later. “You probably have a favorite font now.”

Romani clears his throat delicately. “...I actually do like comic sans,” he says. “I know, I know. But it’s an easy-to-read sans-serif font, and it’s actually very good in terms of accessibility for people with dyslexia...”

Merlin is terribly, hopelessly endeared, and he can’t even bolt for the door.

Fou continues to threateningly knead the big muscle of his thigh for the next hour at least, well after the mugs of tea are empty and Merlin has failed to cadge any further details on lust demons or Chaldea’s current problems out of Romani — apparently Da Vinci _did_ get to him, more’s the pity on that front. When Romani gets up to go take care of his night-time ablutions, Merlin half thinks to bolt and go find somewhere else to sleep, or not sleep, but the second he reaches down to dislodge Fou he gets the angry lawnmower sound again.

Apparently Merlin is only allowed to engage on Cath Palug’s terms, and those terms are currently _I can touch you, but you can’t touch me_. He supposes it’s fair, it’s just a problem when he’s being pinned in place like a toddler in a carseat. 

In contemplating the problem of his lap, Merlin’s only really aware of the fact Romani’s come back into the room, and not what he’s doing, which is why it surprises him when a set of pajamas is shoved under his nose. “Here,” Romani says firmly. “You didn’t show up for medical exam _or_ measurements, so I had to guess.”

Merlin takes the pajamas, bemused. They’re soft under his fingers, probably flannel. The pattern is pleasantly innocuous, just the mottled white and blue of a cloudy summer sky, by contrast to Romani’s... those are _smiling ice cream cones_. How had Merlin not noticed that before. “What,” Merlin says, “no smiling desserts?”

Romani huffs. “Maybe there would have been, if you showed up.” 

What was teasing suddenly turns into just punishment via the deprivation of gleeful sugarscapes. Merlin closes his mouth, abruptly on the back foot. He doesn’t know how he feels about that, and might in fact actually want it. This is very strange. 

“How thoughtful?” Merlin tries, and this at least doesn’t get turned back on him.

Romani makes shooing motions, indicating Merlin toward the bathroom. “Go on.”

Mutely obstinate, Merlin points down at the fluffy lump in his lap. Romani considers this, then leans over and gets his hands around Fou’s middle with nary a concern that he’ll be scratched for his troubles. “ _Kyu_ ,” Fou complains, and his claws stick in Merlin’s trousers for a moment as he’s pulled free. His paws fly wide, then Romani tucks the little beastie against his chest and Fou settles in again grumpily. 

“There,” Romani says triumphantly, rubbing behind Fou’s ears. “ _Now_ go on.”

Out of material to argue with, somehow, Merlin goes.

He debates the truly obnoxious move of taking a long shower and coming to bed with wet hair, but it seems more trouble than it’s worth right now, especially if Chaldea’s systems are overtaxed by the post-Enuma-Elish repairs. He makes a mental note to check in on their power status tomorrow if he can get a moment unobserved by Romani, Da Vinci, Holmes, the girls, and any nearby knights. He might not be _in_ Avalon, but he can definitely still conduit if he needs to. 

He’ll experiment with a shower later. For the moment Merlin just shrugs out of his clothes and oozes into the pajamas instead. Romani erred on the big side when he was doing — whatever he was doing to get them, but honestly that’s a feature. And very, very soft. 

He puts his usual clothes away in Romani’s closet, elbowing Romani’s clothes to one side to stake out one corner of it for himself, and all the while expecting some sort of scandalized noise, but apparently this forwardly intimate domesticity is just something Romani’s rolling with now. Merlin doesn’t know how he feels about that, either. Shouldn’t he be a rude imposition, one way or another?

“I’m still fine to take the floor if you’d prefer,” Romani says from somewhere behind him, while Merlin’s frowning at the scrubs and unused dress shirts. 

Kicking Romani out of bed when it was fine last night _would_ be rude. And imposing, and probably safer, to boot. But: 

Merlin thinks of the play of shadows on shadows, the way Romani’s lashes rest against a cheek limned dimly with artificial moonglow, and he doesn’t say anything at all, just invites himself to bed. Romani _does_ make a mildly surprised noise as Merlin vaults over him to take the wall-side spot, but Merlin’s well aware this is small potatoes by the standard he needs to hit if he wants to be kicked out.

...well, worse isn’t happening right now. He’ll try again later. In fact, taking extra time to come up with more annoying behavior will probably make whatever behavior he does come up with even more annoying.

Yeah.

Romani turns the lights out again, producing the encore of last night’s mood lighting that Merlin had just been thinking about. “Good night,” he says, apparently unaware of how he’s completely disarming Merlin’s capacity for rational thought about things other than him. Rude.

Merlin makes a vague effort not to stare and winds up doing it anyway. 

He’s sure he drifts off at some point, when the darkness and the closeness combine and conspire to make his eyes grow heavy, but like before he couldn’t say precisely when or how it happens, just that he wakes up at some point later, much closer to Romani than he was sure he had been when he first laid down. There’s a weight on his back, too. It’s heavy and warm and sort of vibrating.

...Ah, he’s stuck, isn’t he. His face is mashed against Romani’s shoulder and Cath Palug is sitting on his back, and Merlin is firmly caught in the act of cuddling up. _And_ won’t be able to flee if Romani doesn’t take the cat off him. 

Doom has never felt so warm and comfortable. Merlin gives up and closes his eyes again. This is a problem for a slightly later version of him.

He wakes _again_ to Romani having managed to get out of his sleepy grasp, but sitting on the bed petting Fou. “That’s _very_ good,” Romani tells Fou, apparently unaware Merlin’s awake again. “Can you keep him there for a little while? He has an appointment in medical and I’d prefer if he didn’t run off before then.”

Merlin groans loudly before he can stop himself, remembering only belatedly that subterfuge might get him farther. “That’s playing dirty.”

“That’s working with the tools available to me,” Romani says. A touch Merlin can’t see ghosts over his head, as if — as if Romani had just sort of _missed_ when petting Fou and gone for Merlin’s hair instead. ...It’s a stupid thought. “Since you proved you’d run off yesterday, I’m taking steps.” 

Muffled into the pillow, Merlin makes a few more disgruntled noises and gives up any pretense at dignity. 

“Yes,” Romani says serenely. “I’m aware. Wait here, I’ll be back soon.” 

And Merlin is left to his fate with Fou perched atop him like a conquering lion. ...Honestly, there are worse places to be, all things considered; it’s just that Fou sitting on him like this feels half like a threat and half like a reminder of things he can’t have, and so all told it inclines him to sulk. “I don’t suppose I could bribe you to let me up,” he says, twisting his head just enough to get the words out of the pillow.

“ _Fou_.” 

It’s definitely a no. Merlin is forced to lay there and contemplate the life choices that have led him to this point until Romani comes back out of the bathroom and lifts Fou off of him. “Go ahead and get dressed,” Romani says, shooing at him. “We can head down to the medical wing together.”

Merlin sits up finally, gets a good look at Romani in his current iteration of uniform and doctor’s coat, and sighs. “I’m not getting out of this, am I.” That gaze is firm, and the uncompromising line of his mouth as he points off to the bathroom speaks volumes. 

“Not this time.” Romani folds his arms. “It’s just one appointment. It’s not going to kill you.”

“There are worse things,” Merlin mutters, but he gets up and goes to get dressed. 

He _does_ spend as long as he can justify in the shower, hoping it will make Romani give up out of sheer impatience, but when he comes back out Romani is still waiting there, leaning against the door with Fou perched on his shoulder. 

Merlin begins to wonder if he has actually met a match for stubbornness.


	5. as we ride out west

True to his word, once Romani has shepherded him down to medical, he delivers Merlin into the less-than-warm open arms of Paracelsus and absents himself to let the Casters stare at each other. On the one hand, Merlin does appreciate Romani’s judgment in not simply letting one of Chaldea’s non-Servant staff handle this. On the other hand, he’s pretty sure it would be easier to escape someone who isn’t a Servant. 

Still. It’s reasonably painless, and he doesn’t even have to strip. As useful a distraction as that would have been. Instead he and Paracelsus talk around the structure of magical circuits in humans, Merlin grudgingly elaborates a little on how he differs and how that affects his use of magic — it’s a lot more instinctive than that of many modern mages, for one thing — and Paracelsus takes probably more notes than Merlin wants him to on the combinations of human and phantasmal biology. 

It really shouldn’t be that much of a surprise that he’s on the verge of normal, he feels. By its nature incubus physiology would _have_ to be chameleonic at least at the basest of levels, for Merlin to even have been born in the first place. Because he exists, clearly whatever biological markers were necessary were within acceptable deviations of each other.

Somehow his impression that this should be obvious doesn’t endear him to anyone nearby.

When all the records are made and he’s given at least a _tidy_ bill of health if not a clean one, Merlin makes a break for the exit, reasoning that he’s done his time and now Romani can’t complain about Merlin going to hide from people for the rest of the day. He doesn’t bargain for Romani catching sight of him as he bolts for freedom, nor for the calling of his name, which elicits a habitual response to the extent that Merlin actually _backtracks_ to see what Romani wants instead of leaving like the smart thing would be.

And that’s how Merlin winds up blackmailed into dinner.

They’ll just be in the kitchen, Romani says. Minimal people. Ritsuka and Mash and Da Vinci at the most. If Merlin _promises_ to show up, Romani won’t bother him for the rest of the day, and won’t send anyone else to bother him either. 

It sets poorly, that he’s being bribed with the absence of someone he ostensibly likes, but not poorly enough for Merlin not to take the offer and run with it. He escapes to a different closet — this one near the cafeteria, but not _so_ close as to be suspicious — and settles down there to spend time thinking about the mess he’s made of his life and the strange, pleasant prison he’s agreed to. 

Somewhere in the depth of his subconscious there’s a sheep, still. It’s not getting into anything it shouldn’t — yet — but Merlin suspects it’s only a matter of time, and it nags at him still that he can’t identify this fraction of himself. He winds up crouched on a dream of grass staring the sheep down as it crunches and munches and blithely ignores Merlin himself. Vaguely, Merlin entertains the hope that if he stares long enough it’ll reveal itself to have been the power of love all along and he can pack everything in and call it a decade. 

The sheep shows no signs of doing anything but possibly eating Merlin’s hair some more. At least _other_ manifestations of his subconscious have good enough sense to stay _sub_ -conscious, and Merlin doesn’t have to have any other arguments except the one with himself about going to dinner. 

In the end it’s that nagging feeling from earlier that does it, the one about how it’s a frankly miserable excuse for a character trait that he can be bribed with the _absence_ of the people he theoretically likes better than most of the others living at this point in time. Merlin has just enough pride left to him to make the conscious decision that he doesn’t actually want to be that person, and so he turns up to dinner. He’s even early— the only other person already there is Ritsuka, rattling through cabinets and making cheerful noises to herself and the interested cat pawing at the fridge.

As soon as he’s sat down at the little folding table, Ritsuka changes course to put Fou in his lap.

“ _Hey_ ,” Merlin says, sharply offended, though he manages to nail the instinctive freeze instead of flight. He’s learned about not being mangled. “Do I look like a cat bed? Does _he_ look like a seatbelt?” Fou makes an indignant sort of chirrup and turns several times on the spot, mashing his paws up and down with just the hint of poky edges before he settles down to make Merlin’s life immovable for the foreseeable future.

“Weeeeeell,” Ritsuka says. “You know, sometimes they put those things on seatbelts to make them softer, those are kind of white and fuzzy...”

Merlin frowns at her, or tries to, though it’s harder to make his face make those shapes than he swears it should be. “The correct answer is no,” he tells her. “And it’s nice when people don’t put things that are liable to maim me on top of me.” 

Fou yawns, flashing needle-point teeth. It’s either adorable or a threat. Possibly both. Ritsuka coos and reaches over to rub behind his ears, which is allowed. “Doctor Roman said he wasn’t trying to attack you any more! He’s been more laid-back recently, too, it’s fine.”

Mentally Merlin correlates ‘recently’ with ‘after the Temple’ and sighs; but on the surface all he does is grin wickedly at Ritsuka. “Watch this,” he says, and makes like he’s going to pet Fou. 

He touches just a tiny tuft of fur and immediately the being in his lap becomes a furious lawnmower, rattling with an outsizedly displeased sound and revving up to cut grass. Ritsuka pulls her hand back in a hurry, as does Merlin. “Oh,” she says, “okay, so it’s less truce and more ‘ceasefire for Christmas’ or something, gotcha. Still, you’re fine like that, right? As long as you’re not touching him?”

Merlin looks down at Fou, who is no longer lawnmower-rumbling and instead peacefully licking between his own toes. “Sure,” he says dryly, well aware of how many razors one cat can produce on command.

“Great!” Ritsuka beams and bounces off to plonk herself down opposite him. “I missed my frogs this morning, by the way, I’m _disappointed in you_.”

—Oh, he’d forgotten. Merlin promptly sends his gaze distant to locate Ritsuka’s room properly, intending to spin up a proper swampy illusion for her. “Morning is subjective,” he says absently. “We’re constantly buried in snow.”

“Then it’s always morning,” Ritsuka concludes, “which means I can always have waffles since it’s always breakfast.”

Actually, getting Ritsuka to eat fully healthy meals is nowhere _near_ Merlin’s problem, so he carefully leans back in his chair and beams at her. “Sounds right to me! Is that’s what’s on tonight?” 

“ _Absolutely not_ ,” Romani says sternly from the kitchen door. Ritsuka immediately puts on the most innocent face she has, and Romani softens within — Merlin counts — fifteen seconds. “Maybe for dessert.” He brings in his wake Mash and Da Vinci, as well, talking among themselves, and immediately Merlin starts to feel the warm scratchiness that might be the closeness of friendship and might be allergies. 

Probably allergies. 

To Merlin’s surprise, dinner is _normal_. They all seem to have given up haranguing him for not visiting or expressing friendship, with the sole exception of Ritsuka demanding a tithe in hugs before she’ll give him anything to eat. Merlin gestures helplessly to Fou in his lap, which she did to him and should understand; Ritsuka counters this by leaning against his back and draping her arms around his shoulders. 

But other than that, it’s just— food, and company. Merlin stumbles over it multiple times. It doesn’t make any sense, that this should be enough for anyone. Ritsuka and Mash expanding on the things Merlin hasn’t seen here in Chaldea; Romani and Da Vinci murmuring low-voiced to each other about things Merlin suspects he wants to know about until Ritsuka elbows Romani and pronounces that it’s _family dinner_ and there is _no business at the table_. 

Romani laughs his sheepish laugh and smiles his gentle smile, and Merlin is allowed to just _be._

It is, in summary, weird.

More than an hour passes before Mash gently liberates Merlin — exacting her own tax of a hug with gentle, terrible fondness before picking Cath Palug up and tucking him into her arms as if he were no more than a recalcitrant plushie. She moves like she has never expected him to have claws, all simple and assured grace, and Cath Palug looks up at her with his wide oilslick-dark eyes and desists from any semblance of lawnmower. 

Envy and pride do a mean little jig all over Merlin’s thorn-tenderized heart. She’s good for Cath Palug, she really is; and evidently the beast in question has long since felt the same way.

“Merlin?” 

He startles, glancing around and finally catching Romani’s eye. “Whatever it is, I didn’t do it,” he says lightly, covering over anything else that might be showing underneath. 

Romani’s smile turns wry. “You haven’t yet,” he says. “Will you walk back with me? I still have some things to do this evening, and I could use the company.” 

“Don’t work too hard, Doctor.” Ritsuka leans across the table, interrupting specifically to shake a finger in his face. “I mean it.”

“Of course not,” Romani says agreeably. “Just hard enough.” 

She eyes him suspiciously, then turns to Merlin with meaningfully raised eyebrows; and Merlin, who is after all not a stranger to making Romani sleep when necessary, just nods. 

“I _can_ sense you plotting against me, you know,” Romani says, more exasperated now, but Ritsuka just cackles to herself and moves after Mash. 

“You can’t catch all of them,” Da Vinci says with utmost serenity. Merlin was right, it’s infinitely more fun to watch her inflict that on other people. “You’ll just have to submit to being taken care of now and again.”

Romani huffs, without a verbal response to that, and something in the warm hue of his cheeks and the way he glances away makes Merlin think that he doesn’t actually want to argue with Da Vinci about that one. 

She splits off from them at the first major junction in the halls, leaving Merlin and Romani to their own pace back toward Romani’s room. Their room, Merlin guesses, properly; but if he starts calling it that in his head he might start getting _more_ ideas. Romani’s room it is. 

“Sooooo I can’t help but notice they were a lot less pointed about how I never write,” Merlin says eventually, as they go. “Which is interesting, because I skipped out on the three of them last time we had one of these shindigs.” 

“Ah, that _is_ interesting,” Romani says, more or less innocent. Merlin eyes him sidelong, trying to decide how legitimate this is, and accordingly lamenting that he doesn’t know Romani’s mischief well enough to judge it. “Wouldn’t you say that’s for the best, though?”

“Hmmm.” Merlin turns around in the hall, walking backward to watch Romani’s face more intently without bothering to look ahead. “It’s difficult to say. People don’t learn if they don’t experience repercussions for their actions, right?”

 _Now_ he sees something emotional he can recognize, but it’s uncomfortably close to pity. “People don’t grow if they aren’t encouraged,” Romani says softly.

Merlin opens his mouth. Closes it. Gropes for a rebuttal, finds something only after enough seconds to be noticeable. “Maybe, but you can’t say a lack of growth is completely owing to a lack of external validation.”

“True,” Romani agrees. “There has to be willingness. But... hm. Like flowers, maybe? A seed wants to grow, but needs water and sunlight to do so, doesn’t it?”

“For other people, maybe,” Merlin says, and with some smugness holds out a closed hand as he skips backward. He opens his fingers and a flower blooms there — five petals, golden center, pink petals shading redder even as he watches. “It’s not so hard, when you know what you’re doing.” 

Romani regards him silently for several long moments, such that Merlin’s gait falters. He tucks the flower back into his hair, where it will hopefully _stop being a little traitor and stay pink_. “Something on my face?” he asks finally, still walking backward. 

“Just thinking,” Romani says. 

Suddenly Merlin doubts whether they’d been having the same conversation or not. 

But then Romani’s gaze goes past him, over his shoulder, and his expression changes. “Good evening, Sir Lancelot,” he says.

In sheer panic-driven reflex, Merlin spins an illusion of an empty hallway out over himself and steps into nothingness, hiding. _Please_ let that be Romani’s idea of a joke—

Nope.

That sure is Lancelot, waiting outside of Romani’s room. He’s dressed down from full plate, but Arondight still accompanies him, and his face is set in a graven solemnity that...

Well, there was a time he wore other expressions. Not recently, though. Lancelot levels that solemnity at the place where Merlin had lately been, and then transfers his focus to Romani. “Doctor,” he says. “Would you please tell Merlin, when you see him again, that I need to speak to him.”

Romani glances from the space Merlin was, to Lancelot, to the space Merlin _is_ , which is frankly rude and Merlin sidesteps some more to get out of that immediate line of sight. “I’m... happy to pass on the message?” he says cautiously. 

This is _ridiculous_. Merlin faces the wall, squeezes his eyes shut, and counts to ten. “I am not having this conversation tonight,” he tells the wall, which may incidentally be audible to everyone else in the hallway. 

He doesn’t want to have it at all, honestly, though he’d known he wouldn’t be able to evade indefinitely. He’d _really_ been hoping that Bedwyr would give him more time than this.

Perhaps Lancelot simply wouldn’t be denied; perhaps this _is_ Lancelot being patient with Merlin. Either way: Merlin isn’t having it tonight. It can’t be indefinitely delayed, sure, but at least one more day. Maybe tomorrow he’ll have more courage. Maybe tomorrow... 

Something will be better, anyway, he’s pretty sure. 

“If you could tell Merlin that I’m willing to wait until tomorrow,” drifts back from Lancelot’s direction. “But not longer.” 

“Sir Lancelot...” Romani says, with a weary sort of care. “Is this necessary?”

“Yes,” Lancelot says simply. “I have not forgotten what we spoke of; but in the affairs of the Round Table, there are things that must be said and done for oneself. We have put many things off for too long.” 

Merlin hears Romani sigh softly, and the brush of fabric. “Very well,” Romani says. “I’ll pass on that message, as well. Good night, sir Lancelot.”

“Good night,” Lancelot echoes. In the shift of buckles and cloth Merlin hears a bow. 

He stays invisible facing the wall for what feels like an eternity of retreating footsteps, vaguely aware all the while that he should probably move at some point and go where no one will run into him. 

Merlin fails to move under his own power, and what eventually stirs him is Romani’s tap on his shoulder, and the gentle hand at his elbow, tugging him away and toward the room. “It’s unfair that you can see me still,” Merlin says even as his feet move accordingly. Petty. Yes. He can do petty. That’s easy.

“I can’t actually,” Romani says. “I just know where you are; and when I know where you are, there’s a sort of... shimmer. Like the air is too hot.” He palms the door open and nudges Merlin inside, with remarkable accuracy for someone who can’t actually see him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I really don’t,” Merlin says. He remembers to drop the illusion when the door slides shut behind them, but after that he can’t decide whether kotatsu or bed or obnoxiously sprawled over Romani’s desk is a better choice, so he just sits down on the floor where Romani stopped prodding him. “Anyway, I didn’t promise him anything and he can’t talk to me if he can’t find me.” 

He _knows_ this is not going to solve his issues. He’s just having trouble caring. Lancelot is a knotty problem, and he wishes he had about a year more to psych himself up for such a conversation. And then, optimally, at least a century to procrastinate actually having it. 

“Merlin...” Romani’s tone is somewhere between weary and exasperated, and Merlin’s expecting additional lectures on things he already knows about _healthy coping mechanisms_ and _you can’t run from everything forever, Merlin_. 

But Romani finally just sighs, and for a moment his hand brushes across Merlin’s head, so lightly Merlin can convince himself he imagined it again. “All right,” Romani says. “I have work to do. Let me know if you need anything, all right?”

A quip about wildly athletic sex dies in his throat, sadly. Merlin leans back on his hands and considers the ceiling while Romani sets up his laptop and puts on the kettle, presumably to be forgotten about when he gets involved in work instead of actually used for coffee or tea. Actually—

With a wrench Merlin yanks his mind away from dwelling in the horror of meaningful personal conversations and turns it to judging the doctor’s personal habits. “Should you be having caffeine this late?”

“It’s hardly past seven in the evening by Chaldea hours,” Romani says without looking up. 

“Same question.” Merlin sits up, tucks his legs up — encounters boots, decides against boots, and starts stripping them off. “Don’t you have trouble sleeping?”

Romani clears his throat. “Caffeine doesn’t make a difference to this insomnia. Although I appreciate the concern. It’s... hm.” When Merlin glances over at him, he finds Romani tapping his fingers together, his gaze somewhere distant. “Before I — gave up my incarnated form, I was subject to human limitations, but there was too much to do to rest. When I couldn’t go any longer, then I would sleep; otherwise, coffee. It got to the point that I wasn’t used to sleeping at any point when I wasn’t completely exhausted. And now...” He catches Merlin’s eyes and smiles a bit self-deprecatingly, gesturing to himself. “I don’t _need_ to sleep much, truthfully. I contain enough magic that it takes care of most of my physical needs — except that, as I keep being reminded, there are human benefits to sleep that we don’t know if magic will compensate for.” This is accompanied by a meaningful look which Merlin blithely ignores. “Especially since humans rarely reach this point in this age, and Servants don’t suffer the same limitations. But all the same, it’s hard to want to sleep at any point before total exhaustion. There’s always more to do; and if I sleep, who knows what will happen while I’m out.”

There are a few skipped steps there that Merlin can fill in with his own conclusions surprisingly easily: if Romani sleeps on _purpose_ , because he just wants the rest, isn’t that selfishness? Isn’t it a luxury, to sleep the optional sleep, and wouldn’t it then be the height of guilt if something happened that he _could_ have helped, and was unconscious out of indulgence?

What Merlin doesn’t like about this is how he recognizes that logic, and how familiar it is. Gently he sweeps that, too, under the rug. “Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t have every alarm in this place wired to your room just in case,” Merlin says, somewhere between dry and blunt mostly because he can’t tell what tone is going to be best for _you’re being stupid_. 

Romani abruptly becomes very interested in the lacework of tattoos across the backs of his hands.

Merlin can’t blame him, they’re very pretty, but he suspects Romani of motives other than narcissism. “So if an alarm gets you up, then you can handle a thing,” he says with a shrug. “If you were tired enough to sleep through the sort of klaxons Chaldea’s equipped with, then obviously you _were_ exhausted.” Or charmed into sleep.

“I’m not sure it works that way,” Romani says. “Or— I don’t know that I can believe that enough to make sleep happen on a schedule, I guess.”

“I can always do like I did that first night.” Merlin’s made the offer before he even thinks about it, some instinct to help shortcutting past his conscious reservations.

Romani shakes his head. “No— I appreciate it, but growing dependent on something else to put me to sleep won’t help the underlying issue.”

“But it can help the symptoms while you address the underlying issue,” Merlin points out. “Right? Don’t look at me, I’m not the doctor here, it just seems like it might be easier to get the idea if you have a practical precedent.” He rationalizes this to himself: it’s not really going out of his way if he’s sleeping near Romani, and there’s no undue feelings in teaching someone to sleep. It’s just like teaching the sword, at this point: it’s reasonable to set a student’s feet into a good stance so they can feel for themselves what it’s meant to be before trying to do it on their own.

“Hm,” Romani says thoughtfully, which is markedly neither agreement nor disagreement, and nothing more.

Merlin stretches, gets to his feet, and doesn’t know what to do with himself. He pokes around the room some, turns the kettle back on since Romani _did_ forget about it. The bed is... a bed, really. There _is_ a bookshelf, but it looks like digital books are more the norm, which makes sense for an Antarctic facility. And there’s the empty vase, too, which reminds him of the crimson rose innocently twined in Romani’s hair. 

And now Merlin’s looking at Romani’s hair and thinking about—

Firmly Merlin cuts himself off from _that_ and goes to see how suitable this closet is for hiding in. He’s pretty sure from when he had been rifling through it earlier that it’s more than sufficient to hold one adult man, and it could be a good future resort against people who expect him to hide somewhere _else_. He slides the door open and... stares. 

Most of the clothes have been shoved to one side. There are some things hanging up on the other side that hadn’t been there before — Merlin hazards a vague guess that Romani had gone to the quartermaster with measurements gained illicitly from Paracelsus’s examination, though he can’t really fathom _why_ — but most pertinently, there are blankets and cushions lining the corner under the new things, like someone’s set up a little nest. 

Well. Not someone. Romani, specifically. 

“What,” Merlin says blankly, still staring at this. 

“Hm? Oh.” Romani’s voice drifts over faintly. He doesn’t sound at all bothered. “I couldn’t tell if you were joking about the agoraphobia or not, and it _is_ recorded as a symptom of prolonged solitary confinement, so...”

Merlin _had_ tried that excuse a few times, hadn’t he. Still, this is an absurdly thoughtful response to his justifications for not being exposed to a large number of other people. “But how does that make _this_ ,” Merlin clarifies, as if the problem was how he’d asked the question.

“It’s probably more comfortable than a supply closet,” Romani says. The patter of keys says he hasn’t even bothered to get up. “So, if you do feel the need, you have the option. It’s small, but that’s the point, and it’s not like I expect you to sleep there.”

The whole affair is _thoughtful,_ horribly so. Merlin’s heart lurches terribly, achingly, committing some sort of acrobatic feat he really wishes it wouldn’t when it’s already so squished. Silently he steps into the closet space and closes the door behind him. 

If anyone asks, he’s just... testing it out. Yeah. 


	6. of a golden age

Rather than come out of that particular closet, Merlin opts to have a minor existential crisis there for half the night. It’s a small one, mostly to do with the fact he can actually _identify_ specific feelings and can’t root them out, but it paralyzes him for a while despite the fact he clearly has no solution or course of action planned for the issue. 

Somewhere in the middle of the night he slips back out into the room proper to find the lights dimmed and Romani a long unconscious lump on the bed. Much to his dismay, Merlin finds that he actively _wants_ to go and slip into the bed beside him, just to have that warm presence beside him — okay, maybe a little to stare at the shape of his face while he sleeps. Just a little, though.

Upon identifying this want Merlin turns right back around and goes to sleep in the closet. This is nonsense. It’s ridiculous. It’s stupid.

He’s _completely fucked_.

In the morning Romani wakes him as an incidental effect of looking for clothes, and Merlin wanders bleary and sulky out into the room, already brainstorming ways he can avoid Lancelot another day. He _could_ just never leave this room, but it’s a known quantity and being here is predictable, and he doesn’t want to lay money on the concept that the knights won’t invade it. 

Unfortunately, when he takes a quick clairvoyant peek outside the door, Lancelot is _already there_ , sitting against the wall opposite and apparently in deep meditation. That _fiend_ , he thought ahead. 

Maybe Merlin can invisibly slip out behind Romani when he leaves for the day. 

Except that somehow Romani seems to read this plan on him, and stops short of the door to eye Merlin with a gentle thinking frown. “I know you said you didn’t want to talk about it,” he starts, which is absolutely the worst way he could have started a conversation. “But... wouldn’t it be better to get it out of the way now so you don’t have to worry about it later? What’s the worst possible outcome?”

Merlin breathes in to answer and finds he doesn’t have an answer, has to do some last-minute soul-searching to think of that for himself. What _is_ the worst that can happen, speaking to Sir Lancelot, late of the Round Table? What is it he fears, beyond the nebulous _pain_ that drives so much of his flight?

Recrimination. Guilt. Confirmation of what Merlin has told _himself_ all along: that it’s all at his feet for meddling in the first place. It’s funny — he knows his prison in the Tower of Avalon is a deserved one, but apparently he’d been holding on to some perverse hope despite all that, if he can still be so afraid to be told of his sins. Merlin laughs sharply, unexpectedly, bending in half to do so. What _irony_ , that he of all people still wants to be told it wasn’t his fault! It’s a child’s wish, and surely one that won’t be granted; he is to carry regrets in place of wishing. 

“...Merlin?” Romani says. Gently, carefully, like approaching a wild thing. “Are you... all right?”

“Not even a little,” Merlin says, straightening cheerily upright like a switch flipped. “It’s fine, though, I figured it out.” Coward, right? He’d still managed to find a way to hide from deeper fears. So: if Lancelot has excoriation for him, Merlin well deserves it, and perhaps it will count as some down payment toward a debt; and if Lancelot has anything _else_ to say...

Hope, as per usual, gets swept under the woolen rug.

Merlin squares his shoulders and elbows past Romani, getting the door open himself. “I’ll be back sometime later,” he says over his shoulder, with a jauntiness he doesn’t feel. “Don’t wait up.”

Romani makes some confused noise behind him, but if Merlin stops _now_ he’s never going to keep going. He heads across the hall, stops where Lancelot is sitting with Arondight across his knees. “Good _morning_ , Sir Lancelot!” Merlin grins till it hurts his cheeks, pushing himself forward with mania and masochism. “Would you like to take breakfast somewhere private? I believe you said you wanted to speak to me.” 

Lancelot tilts his head back to eye Merlin with a distinctly bemused expression; but, wisely, he doesn’t question it, only gets to his feet and settles his sword at his hip. “I have already eaten,” he says, “but will my room suffice?” 

Right. Merlin adjusts his mindset ninety degrees. Breaking bread together was a different thing, back then, and as much as the summoning generally gets Servants an infodump on the modern era... well, it’s a different thing from Merlin, who’s observed human cultural changes for fifteen hundred years and immersed himself in the internet pretty much as long as it’s existed. “Sure,” he says. “Lead the way.” 

Lancelot’s room isn’t a bad choice. It makes Lancelot himself a host, inasmuch as they have rights of hospitality here where everyone is under Chaldea’s auspices; it means as long as Merlin doesn’t offer mortal insult he’s not at any real physical risk. Just all the other kinds. 

It doesn’t escape Merlin that Lancelot doesn’t ever get more than a step ahead of him, though. Not quite at his shoulder; not quite allowed behind him. That’s... great. Nice and promising.

The silence weighs uncomfortably across Merlin’s chest. He bears it as he can, resisting the urge to volunteer anything; it’s that sort of silence into which he could only say unwise things. Instead he glances around the room as Lancelot hangs up his sword and cloak. It’s bare and ascetic and might as well be any of the other rooms in Chaldea’s living quarters, the ones emptied of evacuated or dead staff and then filled with Servants as they came. They might not strictly _need_ to sleep, after all, but everyone gets a little cranky without their own space...

There is _not_ a kotatsu, which makes Romani’s setup automatically superior as far as Merlin’s concerned. The table is low to the ground, though, and has cushions instead of chairs to go with it. Merlin folds himself up onto one of those without real complaint; he’s never been a stickler for chairs. He wonders if Lancelot actually ever _uses_ this setup or spends all of his time in the chapel or simulator. He’s not saying there’s dust on the table, it’s just... it doesn’t feel like a place a person lives. Not really.

He’s distracting himself from the issue at hand and he knows it.

“How long did you know?” Lancelot asks, once he’s sat down, and Merlin honestly takes a few seconds to even process the question, such is the sudden blow of it. 

How much knowledge _has_ Lancelot lucked into, in the interim. “Know what?” Merlin asks, on the principle of not incriminating himself before he has to.

Lancelot does not appear impressed. “Where it would all end,” he says, each word the somber step of a pall-bearer.

Merlin sighs. He draws one knee up to his chest, rests his chin on it. He might as well be comfortable, if everything else is going to hurt, and he finds he doesn’t have the will for runarounds. “Kind of depends,” he says. “I knew Camlann would happen from the day I set the sword in the stone. I didn’t know how or why, necessarily. It’s not as easy as that.” His gaze slips around the room, resists settling on the other man present. Sometimes he gets as far as Lancelot’s shoulder before skidding away again. 

“You never spoke much about how your sight worked,” Lancelot says slowly. It sounds to Merlin’s ears like he’s valiantly trying to restrain judgment, which is annoying. He could just judge and have done. Secondarily annoying is how _familiar_ he is, as if centuries locked away in a tower were just an intermission, and all the years of the Round Table so graven into Merlin that proximity is the only thing required to blow the cobwebs away. “As I recall, you liked to be mysterious about it.”

“Still do,” Merlin says, reflexively, casually wry. “It’s a lot more useful when people don’t expect miracles from me.” Harder to disappoint that way, too. “...anyway. It’s not as simple as just seeing something happen and deciding not to do it. Sometimes the future shows itself by fragments; other times by visions in metaphor. Sometimes it can be changed; sometimes it can’t be. Sometimes visions show up uninvited; sometimes I have to _look_ before I see. Telling the future is a con man’s business, really, and I’m too lazy to be a prophet.” His mouth makes the shape of a smile automatically, without consulting Merlin’s conscious input on the subject. His heart’s not in it. “So— yes. I knew where it would all end. I always did. Some events I wasn’t forewarned about.” 

But he’d known some things. He hadn’t seen Lancelot at Camlann, for instance. And understanding the bonds of brotherhood of the knights, Merlin had been able to conclude that only two things would have kept him from it: death, or betrayal so complete that the others would no longer trust him as their shield. Either way, it meant there was some place on the road to Camlann where Lancelot would fall.

Honestly, though, what could Merlin have said? Every single one of them _should_ have known an affair with the queen was a terrible idea, and if they hadn’t had the common sense to figure that part out, they certainly wouldn’t have the sense to listen to Merlin’s warning. 

“How could you—” Lancelot starts, and Merlin braces himself; but the stranger part is that Lancelot _stops_ himself, doesn’t finish the sentence how Merlin expects. Instead Lancelot visibly makes an effort to go somewhere else, to turn the outburst aside. Eventually, voice soft, Lancelot manages something else. “You were beside us all that time. Knowing that. I supposed that’s why it seemed, sometimes, like you tried to hold yourself distant. But then... why be in Camelot at all, if you had the choice?”

Merlin recalls the first time he had looked at Lancelot and known his fate was an ill one. He hadn’t cared, the first time; but that feeling had only ever gotten worse.

“My king swore to me that it would be worth it,” Merlin hears himself say — distantly, colored with the wistfulness of times that can never be reclaimed. “That even if the cost was that end, that the glorious years between would be worth it, that if the people could be safeguarded long enough to secure Britain’s future and the knights to fight with her would be the brothers I had seen for the time they all had, then she could accept such an end.” He doesn’t really gain any satisfaction at all from the way Lancelot flinches. He just feels hollow, and sad. 

“ _Could_ you have changed it?” Lancelot doesn’t sound like an accusation. His voice carries the same feelings Merlin has, if anything.

“I don’t know,” Merlin says simply. “Maybe. Visions _can_ change. When I was younger there were times when I tested futures, shifted my intent and turned chances this way or that, and what might come shifted in response. But that saying holds true— you know the one. You may meet your doom on the road you took to avoid it. And there’s no good tell about whether or not a future can be changed, except to try to change it. And I didn’t try.” 

Lancelot is quiet for a long time at that, and Merlin doesn’t particularly feel like breaking that silence. He also doesn’t feel like looking at Lancelot. He just waits to hear the verdict.

But there isn’t one. “Why?” is all Lancelot says at first. “Why not?”

Come on, just judge him and have done. “Does it matter?” Merlin unfolds himself for the express purpose of flinging one hand wide. His voice is the sort of uneven that feels sharp in his throat, despite his best efforts to stay light and offhanded. “The result is the same. I did nothing. The dead don’t care about excuses.”

“It matters,” Lancelot says, even and plodding at some goal Merlin can’t see. “If action is the hand on the sword, then intent is the blade itself: and some blades shatter instead of cutting.”

“It sounds like you’re bending over backward to excuse me,” Merlin says through grit teeth. It’s the stupidest thing he’s heard today. “Let me put it plain for you, then: I didn’t try because I couldn’t abide failure. In my cowardice I chose the certainty of inaction over the uncertainty of making an effort, and your mother was right to make me pay for that selfishness. Is that what you wanted to know, Sir Lancelot?”

From the corner of his eye Merlin sees Lancelot flinch, and the surprise at that makes him for once focus on Lancelot in earnest. By sheer accident their gazes catch. 

So Merlin can tell that Lancelot is being completely honest and open when he says “It is,” as if Merlin has answered some great question of the universe for him. 

It’s uncomfortable. Merlin looks away in a hurry, laces his hands together and tries to pretend he is totally relaxed and comfortable. “Great,” he says. “You’re welcome.” 

“I had wondered,” Lancelot says. For some moments it seems like that’s all he has to say for himself, and Merlin starts to shift with uncomfortable itching to do something or go somewhere, but then Lancelot finally draws his breath in and goes on. “I... spoke with the doctor, before he summoned you here. He mentioned some of the things he had seen about Israel, when he was king: that he had known to change how it fell would be to prevent the future of those who would follow. I wondered if you had seen something like that, for the future of Britain. If there were some reason the Saxons were required to triumph.”

Merlin’s on more even ground here. He flicks his shoulders in a quick offhanded shrug. “I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe. It’s not like I was careful about aiming at that vision, either. If it didn’t happen, I’d have been pleased. But we’ll never know, now, if it was possible.” 

“Yes,” Lancelot agrees. He rests his hands on the table between them, curved as if to cup something invisible. “I have wondered such things, myself. If I had been permitted Camlann— would it have changed anything? Would Arondight have been enough to turn a tide, or is the only thing I would have accomplished another death to add to the red fields?” His fingers curl in slowly, fists clenched for a moment. “In truth, not knowing is almost kinder. I can yet imagine a world where a better man than I would have set that battle right. Hope can be a cruel thing, but compared to the certainty of futility...”

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Merlin starts to understand what Lancelot’s getting at, and it _terrifies_ him. His head jerks up as one more piece sets into place and he sees. “ _Don’t_ ,” he says, sharply desperate.

The compassion he sees hurts, as even a gentle touch will on a raw wound. “I know better than most the look of a man punishing himself,” Lancelot says. “I would not have thought to look for it, before. But now I can tell you this: as much as it is possible, I understand.”

Markedly, it is not _forgiveness_. Merlin thinks he might come apart entirely if it was that. Even this breaks him a little, reduces his consciousness to the sharp rush of breath and the wild, fearful feeling that’s the expectation of pain, denied. He puts his head down on his knee, uncaring of dignity or perception, and tries to bear it; and oh, kindness is a dreadful thing, sharper by far than any lash or blade. 

Da Vinci had said to him, once — was it really only the day before yesterday? truly? — that if he could not accept the kindness, then to take the squirming, knotted feeling of not deserving it and make that his punishment instead. Merlin latches on to that when he can take no more of gentleness, clings to the sense that this is wholly undeserved and he must simply take what’s given to him and cope. It helps. It’s probably not healthy, but it helps. It means he can catch his breath, slow it to a harsh drag through a throat that feels tear-choked though he would swear his face isn’t wet. 

In some further show of horrible kindness, Lancelot just lets him have this. Merlin is vaguely conscious that at some point Lancelot gets up and moves around the room, and then there’s a gentle clunk on the table, something that scrapes toward him. Eventually Merlin musters up enough curiosity about this to squint up at the table. His eyes sting, mysteriously, until he rubs his sleeve across them a few times.

There’s a glass of water on the table. On his side of the table, specifically, offered from host to guest. Merlin looks at this, then at Lancelot. His voice scratches in his throat. “Why?” 

“Because it is all I have to offer,” Lancelot says with a sort of serenity. 

Drinking a glass of water has never before been this difficult. Merlin does it anyway, half out of spite and half out of a genuine desire to ease the scratch in his throat. There’s — layers. Layers and layers here, and Merlin’s head too done in with confusion and pain to really sort through them, only to know for certain that it’s more than an offered dirnk. 

He sets an empty glass down. Try as he might, he can’t seem to make himself uncurl his posture, so he rests his arms on his knees instead, trying to avoid the supremely pathetic self-hug. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admits freely, gaze fixed somewhere to the left of Lancelot’s shoulder. “Not here. I really don’t.”

“I find we are all stumbling here, one way or another.” Lancelot’s shoulders rise and fall with the weight of a heavy breath. “That is not a sin, after all.” 

Merlin rubs a hand across his eyes, sets it down again. His head thinks about pounding. There’s an argument that could be made here, that those who are clairvoyant _must_ look where they are going, that stumbling is beyond permission for those — but this is an argument that he would have the _other_ side of if he were having it with Romani, and this is a place where information travels and it pays not to be a hypocrite if he can avoid it. 

“I suppose not,” he says grudgingly, at last, and pulls the shreds of his dignity around him. “As stunning as the grace of this conversation has been— I would really prefer to make my peace with the others in my own time.” 

The look Lancelot gives him then is one he _certainly_ learned from his foster mother, as in the span of only a raised eyebrow and a tilt of the chin, it expresses a deep skepticism regarding Merlin’s skill for timeliness. “That is between you and each of them at his pace,” Lancelot says. The mildness of it impresses Merlin, for how well he knows he tries patience. “And what we have spoken of is between us. I won’t help you avoid them.” 

Merlin interprets in the spaces between that Lancelot isn’t about to dob him in, either. “Right,” he says blankly. “Okay.” He doesn’t know what to do now. _Understanding_ is a beautiful thing, but there’s some missing stepping stones between there and catching up on new times like old gossips, and the gap yawns wide. He fumbles for some appropriate nicety. “...you look well?”

Lancelot’s mouth twitches. “Well enough,” he says. “Stumbling, but moving forward nevertheless.” A thoughtful pause. “Regardless of anything else, it _is_ good to know you have come through these many years in health.”

If he was _really_ trying to be confrontational about this, Merlin would refer him to the many, many things Romani has to say on the topic of solitary confinement. It hasn’t been so bad as all the solemn faces made at Merlin might imply, but Romani does seem to have a bee in his bonnet about it, and Merlin will confess it’s fun to see him riled up. 

Merlin opts instead to make an effort to maintain a conversation in good humor and... not friendship. Whatever the delicate nascent stage before friendship is, when something may still be so easily fed or starved, one way or another. “Avalon’s made sure I don’t get myself into too much trouble,” he says. The casual avoidance of tower and lady is not a mistake. “Probably for the best.”

“I wonder,” Lancelot says softly. 

“Harsh,” Merlin says, a mild but instinctive jab back. 

Lancelot shakes his head, apologetic around the edges of the gesture. “No, that is— there always seemed to be some part of you that was pleased, with the troubles you got into. To be apart from the world — of it, but never in it — seems a disappointing way to be.” 

The annoying part is that Merlin doesn’t think he’s _wrong_. He rubs at the bridge of his nose again and sighs. “Can we talk about the weather instead?” 

A faint trace of a smile crosses Lancelot’s face and is hidden away under a carefully cultivated blandness. “I hear it’s cold.”

“ _Very_ ,” Merlin agrees fervently, and leaves the topic of Avalon behind.

#

He makes it maybe half an hour more there, in careful company in painstaking conversational sidesteps around the things that will be too weighty to bear after the day he’s already had. Small talk: blessing and curse both. Merlin makes his excuses at the first point that isn’t _too_ awkward, mostly by loudly saying “Look at the time!” and bolting for the door as Lancelot tries to figure out where there’s a clock in the otherwise ascetic room.

There isn’t one. That’s the point.

Free from the conversation and the observation Merlin promptly hides himself under an illusion of the metal walls, and leans against one several meters further away, trying to catch his breath from the sudden dash. His limbs are trembling faintly, he finds — nothing so dramatic as collapsing, but he wouldn’t trust himself with a blade or drawing a straight line. He holds his hand out and watches the instability with an oddly distant fascination.

You’d think he’d been in a fight or something. He really doesn’t know why he’s shaking. Briefly he entertains thoughts of tracking down Romani to ask his doctorly self to explain what’s wrong, but that sounds stupid after about ten seconds’ worth of consideration. He’ll either get pitied or medically examined, and he doesn’t really want either. 

He opts to head back to Romani’s room instead, where he means to hide out for the rest of the day. On the way he pointedly doesn’t lift his illusion — the last thing he needs today is to turn the corner and run into someone _else_ he knows. Inside will be fine. He’s nearly embarrassed to admit he’s looking forward to hiding in the closet.

Why did Romani have to be so _thoughtful_. 

But the room doesn’t open to Merlin’s touch, which is puzzling to say the least. Maybe the illusion’s giving it trouble. Merlin grudgingly drops it and tries again to no end. “I swear this worked before,” Merlin tells the door, frowning at it. “Come on, what’s your problem?”

It doesn’t answer him. Probably for the best. Merlin spends some additional time trying to convince the door that he’s Romani, only apparently confounding spells aren’t going to do the job on electronics and he hasn’t retained enough of Romani’s biological data to pull off a good enough reproduction. Another half-hour later he’s still staring at the door. 

Kicking it doesn’t help either.

Next options include the linen closet or Romani himself. Any of the more tech-minded staff, Da Vinci included, might be able to give Merlin whatever permissions are necessary, but they’d probably just want Romani’s permission anyway, so it’s down to waiting or going to the doctor.

A different closet is more sensible, but...

Somehow, Merlin finds his feet turning toward the medical division, and he can’t even say he objects all that much. He _does_ toss his illusion back up, though. There’s only so much social interaction he’s willing to risk in one day. 

Medical’s not too busy — no crisis means they’re limited to the day-to-day, Merlin suspects, and Chaldea’s occupants aren’t numerous enough to merit constant issues — but people have to be on duty regardless, and administrative work has been a constant of the world since long before Uruk. Merlin discovers Romani’s office without much effort and slips inside, letting the door close behind him.

Romani looks up from his computer with a faint frown — glances around — and finally closes his eyes only to turn his head toward Merlin. “Merlin?”

Oh, right, the illusion. “Your room won’t let me in without you in it,” Merlin explains, and surveys the room. “This is smaller than I thought it would be.”

“I’m sorry my office isn’t up to your standards,” Romani says tartly; but immediately he sighs and leans back in his chair. “...Technically speaking, Malisbury’s old office is mine, but...”

Merlin doesn’t need top-level emotional intelligence to work _that_ one out. “Awkward,” he fills in sagely, nodding. Belatedly he actually uncloaks himself and goes to sit, not in the chair provided for guests but rather in the far corner, the one better out of sight of the door. Two walls at his back, no surprises. Excellent. “Anyway, don’t mind me, I’m just hiding out.”

Rather than listening to him, Romani turns his chair so he can look at Merlin properly, all thoughtful and golden. “Was it as bad as you expected?”

“Surprisingly, no.” Merlin rubs absently at his chest. Somewhere under the cage of his ribs, his heart aches. Rather like thorns are wrapped around it, actually. “And yet, somehow worse?” Why is he saying _any_ of this. “I don’t know, it was a conversation. Neither of us resorted to swords. Which is kind of weird, come to think of it, those knights solved ninety percent of their problems with swords back in the day—”

He cuts himself off when Romani gets up, not sure what to expect; but all Romani does is lock his computer, then come over to sit just in front of Merlin, legs folded up under him in similar fashion. There’s no doubt that Merlin has his full attention now, and it’s as warm as it is uncomfortable. “I suppose what I should ask is, are you glad you talked to him, rather than the alternative?” 

Merlin doesn’t have an answer for that ready easily, has to stop and think about it. He drops his gaze to his linked hands, and after a little while absentmindedly his attention shifts to Romani’s hands instead. It’s not the first time he’s noticed them; they’re attractive hands, even independent of the graceful black ink-marks that decorate them. Merlin wonders about hands doing things like touching, and promptly wrenches his thoughts away from _that_. 

Bad thing to linger on. He’ll just get more stupid. 

“I don’t know,” Merlin says, leaning back against the wall. “I mean— yes? Maybe? But if I say that I am, you’ll just advise me to get it out of the way with everyone else, and I’m not sure I want to do that.”

Romani’s mouth twitches, a smile poorly concealed under the gesture. “If I promise to hold off on the well-meaning advice?”

That’s a different story, Merlin supposes. He tilts his head back, trying to be a little less aware of the man just in front of him. Chaldea’s metal and fluorescent lighting isn’t really a suitable substitute for getting lost in endless skies, whether cloudy or clear, but he’ll just have to make do with what he’s got for now. “I suppose it’s nice to know there aren’t going to be swords at dawn, as it were,” he says reflectively. “I might still duck into cross hallways. I don’t know what to say to any of them, any more.”

“You know that won’t change if you don’t try.” 

Merlin eyes Romani down the length of his nose. “I thought you said no well-meaning advice.” 

Sheepish, Romani holds up his hand, palm out. “Habit,” he says apologetically. “Ritsuka and Mash...”

“Sure, blame the teenage girls.” But Merlin winks to take the sting out of it, and winds up smiling in exchange despite not really meaning to. He hears what’s under that, too: a lifetime as a _wise king_ brought raw to the surface in recent days might have _some_ effect on Romani’s tendency to offer advice. 

He wonders how hard Romani’s had it, putting himself back together _again_. Merlin wouldn’t know. He wasn’t here, and anyway he himself has always just been him, for better or worse. 

But the humor goes, and Merlin winds up just sitting and _thinking_ , feeling around the edges of the painful things and finding that they are, perhaps, a little less painful than they were, at least to look at. “I don’t know,” he says at length again. “None of us are what we were. It’s easy to forget, in a place like this, but everyone I—” 

His throat closes. Rude. Merlin swallows carefully and tries again, conscious of Romani’s presence there but not _quite_ too observed to say something. “Everyone I knew, back then— they died. One way or another, one time or another. That’s how it was. The people around them grieved, and then they died, too. Or both at once. The ones here in Chaldea, the Servants... they’re still bound by systems of magic, the world and the Throne. You only have to look at Lancelot to know that.” The Saber is never seen with the Berserker, for obvious reasons: and that the same man may be projected as two different facets of himself, each distinct but aware of what he _could_ be. 

Most humans don’t have the splitting and twining of self as part of their daily affairs. Merlin twists his fingers together one way, then the other. “I don’t mean to say that they’re not who they were. They could hardly be _more_ of themselves. They’re just... fundamentally different existences now. So it’s strange.” He finishes half-heartedly, a dangling thread.

“It is, isn’t it,” Romani muses. “To mourn someone, and find them again, as well as if nothing ever happened— it would be difficult.”

Merlin eyes him again, suspicious, but it falls short of the _well-meaning advice_ he’s trying to dodge, so he lets it be. “Ritsuka’s contracts may last a long time,” he says instead, and shrugs. “But all things end.” 

Even the two of them, as apart from the normal stream of time and aging and death as they are, will _someday_ end. It’s just going to be a very long time from now. 

“Do you want to know what I think?” Romani asks eventually, some several moments later — enough that Merlin’s back on contemplating mortality and the endings of stories again. 

Merlin gives him another suspicious eying-over, for this. “I don’t know,” he says, intending it to be meaningfully pointed. “ _Do_ I?”

Romani’s handsome face is made a picture of exasperation. “Of the two of us, you’re much more likely to have that answer.”

Way to miss the pointedness, Romani. Maybe Merlin didn’t put enough sarcasm on it. “Fine, tell me,” he says with an ungracious sigh. “The worst that can happen is I’ll go and hang out in a _different_ closet for a while.”

“This isn’t a—” Romani closes his mouth on the indignant response to the distraction. “It’s a perfectly fine office,” he says after a deliberate breath, “and that has nothing to do with anything we’re talking about. And what _I think_ is that you’re going out of your way to find excuses to avoid people, to avoid getting close to the people who meant something to you, because you’re so focused on the eventual end that you’re forgetting what’s right in front of you.” He levels Merlin with a golden-eyed stare, something that transfixes and pins. “There are other parts to stories besides the endings.”

Oh, that’s not fair. Merlin closes his mouth. There is truly, genuinely, nothing he can say to this. _It matters that it happened_ is a compatible statement with _it matters that it ended._ It’s just that the endings stack up.

But he’s savvy enough not to say this to a man who stepped away from everything he loved for the sake of the world.

All at once Romani seems to recollect himself, sits back with darkening cheeks and scrubs a hand over his eyes. “...I can ask Da Vinci to make sure you have access to my room properly,” he says. “You should have already, it’s an oversight.” 

Merlin doesn’t actually feel like moving. As long as Romani stops _looking_ at him like that, too knowing and too kingly. Instead Merlin leans back against the wall again and closes his eyes, making a show of naptime that he doesn’t actually intend to follow through on, and in a little while he hears Romani get up, and then the click of mouse and keys resumes. 

Honestly. Who gave him the authority to _see_ that much— oh, right. 

Merlin stays there until Romani’s done for the day. It just seems like too much effort to move. Romani largely lets him be, and Merlin himself is more than content with that, as the sharp edges in his heart and mind keep bumping into things. Surely one day the sharpest parts will be sanded off, but that day isn’t today. 

When Romani stands to go Merlin finally finds the will to get to his feet, stretch his limbs out and bounce a little. It’s important to put on cheer, after all, before any _more_ close brushes with emotional intimacy can come up; but the way Romani pauses at the door and glances back at Merlin makes him wonder if that ship has long since sailed. “Are you...” Romani starts, then firms up his mouth, shakes his head. “Stupid question. Do you need anything?” 

He has nothing for that question but a shrug, which mercifully Romani accepts. Neither does Romani say anything about Merlin drawing illusion over himself as they head back toward his room, and when they _do_ get there Merlin discovers not only that he has access to the room on his own merits now, but someone’s brought up dinner and left it covered on the table for them.

“I thought this might be better, tonight,” Romani says, gesturing vaguely at the tray. The sheer thoughtfulness of it nearly offends Merlin — how does he keep _doing_ this, doesn’t he know he’s going to do terrible, inextricable things in roses and thorns — but then he’s distracted by the concept of noodle soup and the offense falls by the wayside.

It’s for the best. If he’d actually been offended he might have _said_ something about it.

“Does this mean you’re giving up your campaign of socializing me?” Merlin says halfway through dinner, light enough that he’s _clearly_ teasing. 

Romani blinks bemused at him over a mouthful of noodles mid-slurp, and a moment later laughs. “Only for today,” he says. “It’s a compromise.”

Roots grip Merlin’s heart hard, and he refuses to examine exactly why. 

It’s a quiet night, all things considered, which is a continued mercy. Somewhere out in Chaldea, Merlin can sense the impending doom: Ritsuka yearning to braid his hair, Da Vinci being a well-meaning busybody, further knights forming an orderly queue to harangue Merlin for all the wrong faults. And Sherlock Holmes is out there, too, probably up to moderate amounts of good uncovering secrets. Fortunately those all don’t need to be dealt with right now — they can wait for tomorrow. And privately, Merlin’s glad of the excuse to share a bed at this point. 

He’s in no way equipped to _ask_ for anything like closeness. But where it’s dim and quiet and the thought of dreams is close enough to let him unwind some things a tiny bit more — Merlin can gravitate toward another warmth beside him, and let a loosened knot drift open.


	7. and this world's wrongs all redressed

They don’t talk about it in the morning, which is a mercy Merlin hadn’t looked for. He doesn’t flee immediately — there’s coffee and the sight of Romani damp out of the shower, both of which are enticing — but after that Merlin ambles out into Chaldea at large. 

He realizes a few minutes later that he’s less worried about the people he might run into than he was, which is clearly a huge oversight, and he veils himself immediately. Although his next step is to go and see Da Vinci, so he’s definitely working at cross odds with himself there. Still. The point is: there’s something going on here, more practically, regarding the safety of Chaldea, and Da Vinci hasn’t told him about it. 

“You know I don’t actually need your presence to give you access permissions,” Da Vinci says over her shoulder, directly after he creeps into her workshop and drops the illusion.

Merlin’s a little disappointed, he’d hoped for more surprise than that. “I figured you were above such petty concerns as physical presence,” he says cheerfully. “I’m here to interrogate you about whatever new challenge Chaldea faces that you weren’t telling me about.”

Da Vinci clicks her tongue as she turns around. “Ah, Merlin. You failed lunchtime by three minutes and forty-five seconds. I don’t think I owe you any data at all.” 

“In my defense,” he says, pulling justifications pretty much out of his ass, “you sprung extended socializing on me, known hermit, within twenty-four hours of my arrival in the enormously populous Chaldea. I think I’m entitled to a little running away.” 

She folds her arms across her chest, levels him with an expression just short of serene. “You’ll have to fight Osakabehime if you want to win the title for local hikikomori, you know. However, in the interests of harmony, I’m tempted to allow that it’s understandable. I’ll give you half marks for trying.”

“Great,” Merlin says, immediately perking up. He actually _does_ have something else. “I have also had meaningful and emotionally painful conversations with Sirs Bedivere and Lancelot, which I think you’ll agree should count for the rest of the marks necessary.” He beams at her, as winningly as he knows how. He might not have _wanted_ to have either of those conversations, but now that such things are happening to him whether he wants them to or not, he may as well make use of the circumstances. 

“Hmmmm.” Da Vinci draws the thoughtful hum out long, surveying Merlin long enough to make him itchy; but at the point where he’s tempted to just turn around again, she finally breaks into a smile. “Oh, very well. That’s remarkable progress, for you.”

“Hey,” Merlin says, but his heart’s not really in it. It _is_ , which is the sad part. Ugh, why does he have multiple people apparently invested in his emotional health. It’s _weird_. “Anyway. Gonna tell me what’s up?”

“Fine,” she says lightly, and beckons him over as she starts drawing up files on the monitor to her left. “I’m sure it won’t surprise you if I tell you the Mage’s Association is up to something which is more annoying than usual.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific.” Merlin leans his hip against the arm of her chair, experimenting with the idea of platonic closeness. “They’re always up to something, and at least one of them usually has ideas they shouldn’t.”

“You’re underselling it,” she says lightly.

“I was being generous.” He looks where she indicates, skimming through text that’s probably supposed-to-be confidential. Well, that doesn’t really matter to people like him; Da Vinci’s just making it easy rather than forcing him to mentally scroll through aeons of awful paperwork. “Okay, funding problems, the UN hold on _their_ funding, the Mage’s Association unhappy that their pets didn’t control whatever’s going on here... oh, that’s hilarious.” 

He says hilarious mostly because the alternative is to actually have an emotion about the people of Chaldea and their rights to what they’ve created and worked for. No. Rather to be mockingly amused by the methods men like that think will give them greatness. Such as purchasing it. 

“We think we can forestall most of this,” Da Vinci says once he’s taken in the issues, and lays out the rest for him: how lacking any blood heirs Romani has some claim to Malisbury Animusphere’s estate, which technically encompasses Chaldea; how they’ve done the testing and he passes any biological questions of being Romani Archaman, the change in color palette aside. 

Merlin makes some pleased noise at this, all unintentional, for which Da Vinci pauses to give him a gimlet eye. “Was that intentional?”

“Absolutely not,” Merlin says happily. “It’s a delightful accident that I had no idea was happening. Like I said, I didn’t think at all to grab any of his modern genetic material, or he’d probably be more the redhead. —Or maybe not, if what you’re saying is completely on the nose. Anyway, it’s all for the best now, isn’t it?”

“Mmmhm.” Her skepticism wounds him, frankly, but Merlin doesn’t stop her to express that, and Da Vinci keeps going. “So biological testing aside, his return from the not-dead is still grounds for suspicion, and we’re anticipating the Mage’s Association will want more than a blood sample and a smile. We obviously can’t send a Servant with him to London if it _does_ come to that, and sending Ritsuka is rather like putting the hawk among the foxes, not to mention all of our eggs in one basket.”

“ _Please_ stop mixing your metaphors like that.” Although Merlin will agree that he doesn’t know who would win in that situation — Ritsuka and her cheerful disregard for impossibility, or the Mage’s Association, set in their ways but years ancient and versed in magic academically in a way their dearest savior of humanity just isn’t.

“Nonsense,” Da Vinci says briskly, “one of those was clearly a simile. In any case, it wouldn’t go amiss if someone clairvoyant and very good at disguise _happened_ to accompany him to London.” She pauses there, eyes Merlin sidelong. “And if you’ve spotted any disaster on the horizon, now’s the time to tell us about it.”

Merlin holds his hands up defensively. “I’d have got that out of the way first, rather than hide in closets for three days,” he says. “Some things I don’t mess with. Nothing’s hit me like a _vision_ , though, so I’d say whatever’s in the immediate future is inconvenient but not world-shattering.” This time. He can’t be completely certain, though. “Anyway, rewinding a bit, are you really sure you want to rely on me for this sort of a thing?”

“Hm?” Da Vinci turns in her chair, leans back specifically so she can adopt a relaxed attitude to look up at him. “I don’t see why not.”

“Frankly, I see every reason why not.” Merlin shrugs, stands back. There’s a moment where he searches vaguely for something to lean casually against, discovers nothing vertical and solid enough nearby that will do without making him look _un_ casual, and finally just slouches insouciantly on the spot. “If nothing else, I’m a known rogue and troublemaker, and unreliable to boot! Why, I didn’t even show up for your final battle against Goetia, when things mattered most. Why would you trust someone like that with your precious doctor? I’m likely to just vanish.”

Da Vinci regards him for a long moment, the amusement on her face fading to something a little sterner. “Merlin,” she says, simply, and then makes him wait long enough to get shifty before going on. “...you’re really backed into a corner, aren’t you?”

Panic wells up in his throat and he forces it back down. “Haha, that’s a weird thing to say,” he chirps at maximum cheer velocity. “Please. I’m humoring Romani.”

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days,” she murmurs, eying him from under her lashes. “You might want to take some tips from Holmes. You keep contradicting yourself. You’re here because you want to be, and you’re here because Romani forced you. You’re incompetent and unreliable, and you have such an eye on the future that you’re sure you could warn us of disaster. Loath as I am to give you advice on being a cagey bastard, none of us are so dumb as all that, least of all Ritsuka and Mash. If you’re not careful, the people you’re most worried about are going to cotton on before you’re ready.”

Merlin calculates the distance to the door, but somehow, his feet don’t start moving. “I’ll have you know I’m a very good liar,” he says in lieu of escape, never minding that that’s an admission in and of itself.

“You’re a peerless illusionist,” Da Vinci corrects.

He hears what she means, but opts not to take that bait, running a hand through his hair and making a dramatic show of preening instead. “Why, Leonardo, are you so sure you want to inflate my ego like that?”

“Sometimes I live life on the edge,” she says dryly, and — miraculously — lets the rest of it go, gesturing back at everything they’ve just been going over. “But not, however, with this! Which is why I will take shameless advantage of your many gifts to keep ahead of this game, such as it is. Any tricks they plan to pull, any under-table dealings we haven’t spotted... anything you find, I want to know about it. And, of course, you keeping an eye on Romani.”

Merlin knows when he’s beaten. Sometimes. “Fine, fine. Any idea when we might expect that to be coming down the pipe?”

“Anywhere from three days to three weeks.” She raises eyebrows pointedly. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

He has, in fact, played himself. “I’ll take a look later,” he says, shaking his head. “Don’t expect much, I meant it when I said looking at the future isn’t anywhere near as easy as the other options.” Still, maybe he can turn something up, even if it’s not as obvious as things like the whole of humanity going up in flames. “—Oh, one other thing.”

“What is it?” 

He’d almost forgotten in the mix of all the conversations he _didn’t_ want to have. “Can I have access to wherever you keep your power generation? If you’re having trouble I can help offset.” Theoretically, he adds in his head. He hasn’t looked at _exactly_ what Romani’s summon did in terms of his attachment to Avalon. Just that it’s still there, still got hooks sunk into him, but hasn’t pulled him back yet. 

Da Vinci raises her eyebrows at him some more, but turns to her computer. “You’ve interfaced with Chaldea’s power before, haven’t you? That is, if I give you access, you’re not going to blow something up in a fit of tinkering?”

“Please,” Merlin says, adding an extra note of offense to his tone for good measure. “I don’t _tinker._...with that much firepower. Tinkering is the province of engineers and madmen.”

“Mmhm,” she says, sounding very much like she doesn’t believe him, and brings up what looks like a set of administrative settings. Merlin ambles casually toward the door. “And you think you’re neither one of those...?”

“Certainly not an engineer.” Sidling a bit further, till he can lean at the door like it’s the most casual thing in the world, to the end that when Da Vinci looks up she only eyes him suspiciously a _little_ bit.

“I seem to remember some history of various Merlins,” Da Vinci says, and taps a few more keys with an air of finality. “There. Just warn me if you’re going to do anything that’ll lead to a large fluctuation in power levels, we only have so many surge protectors.” She sits back, turns to look at him again and narrows her eyes. “Someday we’re going to get through an entire conversation without you trying to run away from me.”

“Who, me?” Merlin says, making his face the best picture of innocence he possibly can. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about. Anyway, got to go look at that generator thing, see you later!”

“Merlin—!”

But she doesn’t lunge for him, despite the irritated tone of her voice that says she’d rather he _didn’t_ run off, and Merlin pivots around the door and drops a veil of invisibility over himself as he scoots off into the halls of Chaldea at large. 

What _now_? Even he’s starting to have to admit that hiding is getting untenable, and he hasn’t even made it a full week. Sooner or later he might have to let people acknowledge he exists. As a person who _lives_ here, not a wild hermit in the woods who appears on full moons to dispense wisdom and nonsense in equal measures before disappearing again.

As a — ugh — neighbor. Or even friend.

He’d been right about one thing, at least: even a place of this size can be made to feel like a prison.

#

Merlin spends most of the rest of the day pacing Chaldea under cover of invisibility, caught in a restless boredom he really doesn’t know what to do with. He catches, now and then, the thoughts of going to bother other people for company, and squashes those almost right away. That’s foolish thinking. He’s been self-entertaining for fifteen hundred years and he’s not about to stop now!

It’s just that, well, now other people are an _option_. Something more beyond wandering into their dreams. And apparently, all that time of telling himself that he absolutely did not need or want _company_ has come out to nothing. 

Some part of him is still a child, still too stupid to correlate reaching into flames with burning his hands. 

He has plenty of entertainment options. He’s clairvoyant. Broadway is still running. There are a hundred hundred theatres in a hundred countries, and the wild dreams of all the people who call Chaldea home will surely have _something_ entertaining if he really wants the surround sound experience instead of watching from his distant perch.

Instead he reups Ritsuka’s frog illusion from a distance, making sure her room won’t lack for bouncy, cuddly amphibians the next morning either, and he... 

Well, not to put too find a point on it, but he turns his hobby from long distance invisible surveillance to in-person invisible surveillance, and paces. 

He doesn’t pass by anybody talking about him, which is both relief and offense. A low-stakes poker game in the cafeteria, the endless debate of the kitchen volunteers about what does and does not qualify as appropriate foodstuffs, a sparring match in the halls which has to be rather huffily redirected to the combat simulator by the nearest non-Servant staff member. Merlin probably would have stepped in if that got dicey, since of them all Ritsuka is the only one that Servants technically _have_ to listen to, but the reminder is enough for the impetuous lancers in question. 

Such a lively place, this marvel where humanity’s oldest and most peculiar heroes convene for a time. 

Nothing catches him enough to make him linger, or to drop his invisibility. Merlin does briefly entertain thoughts of going to surveil Holmes and see how _he_ likes it, but that’s safer done from a distance, Merlin actually does have some modicum of instinct for self-preservation, and he just doesn’t like Holmes well enough to invest in giving him a lot of attention. Whatever Da Vinci says about having something to learn from him.

All right, maybe Merlin is out of practice with lying to people’s faces and getting away with it. _Maybe_. 

(Some traitor thought wonders if he’s tripping over his falsehoods on purpose, and he squashes that down rapidly. He doesn’t want to be known, observed, or befriended. He doesn’t.)

But he turns up in Romani’s room again that evening all the same, as bold as if he belongs here, and goes to plonk himself down at the kotatsu where he can steal Romani’s tea and eyeball the laptop balefully. The man really does overwork himself. Of all the worst traits to survive death and resurrection...

“If you’re going to steal my tea, at least do it _visibly_ ,” Romani says without looking up. 

Oh, right. Merlin had honestly forgotten. He stops bending light around his shape and allows himself to be at least a little bit perceived. “You’ve let it go cold,” he informs Romani reproachfully.

“Have I?” This is what makes Romani lift his head, blinking bleary gold at Merlin. “I can’t have been sitting here that long.”

“Signs point to yes.” Merlin makes a face at the tea in question as he squints into the cup, as if this will elucidate how long Romani’s _actually_ been sitting here. Mostly it just tells him that there are layers of rings around the inside, and he’s not skilled at any sort of fortune-telling except in bed. “I’d get you more, except then you’d let that sit too. Come on, your shift has to be over by now.”

Romani rubs his eyes, rolls his neck gently, and then extends an imperious hand for the mug. “I don’t exactly have set hours at the moment. What needs to be done, needs to be done.” 

Without really thinking about it beyond spite and forcing Romani to actually get up, Merlin catches Romani’s gaze and licks the rim of the mug, very pointedly leaving no un-Merlin’d part of it. _Then_ he sets it back in Romani’s hand. 

“...How old _are_ you?” Romani’s face scrunches. He gives his prize a deeply dubious look now, clearly caught up in one or more of the potential dilemmas. 

“Dunno,” Merlin says flippantly, “lost count. Do I have to tell Mash on you?”

“Since that would require you to speak to her outside of Da Vinci’s mandated socializing time...” Over the rim of the mug, Romani levels Merlin with an _extremely_ pointed look. “By all means, go ahead.” 

Ah. A called bluff. “Don’t think I won’t,” Merlin threatens. 

Slowly, deliberately, Romani takes a long draught of the chilly tea, not breaking eye contact until the angle of the mug forces him to. 

Merlin thinks about it. He really, really thinks about it, taking into account that calling the called bluff will definitely result in more time around Mash, who will take it as an overture of friendship and an indication that he’s on her side. Which— well, isn’t he? Putting aside the issue of friendship for the moment, Merlin _definitely_ agrees with her that Romani needs to work less. There are worse bases for an alliance. 

So Merlin stretches and gets up. “You have until I figure out how the intercoms work to save whatever you’re doing and shut that down,” he says firmly, pointing a finger back toward Romani. 

Romani does not seem to be taking this threat seriously, judging by the way he goes back to working at whatever administrivia he’s got pulled up. Oh, well, on his own head be it. This ought to be extremely entertaining, if Merlin can get out of the firing line. 

The intercom system isn’t hard, especially given how much time Merlin’s spent on the internet. He might not be a child of the third millennium, but he’s got the principles down, and the machines in Chaldea weren’t designed to be exceptionally obtuse. There’s general calls and room-specific calls, and Merlin only has to do a little bit of looking over Chaldea with his sight to find where Mash is — her room, with an adorable little bloodthirsty beastie. Perfect. He puts the call through. “Oh Miss Mash,” he carols, gaze going sidelong to make sure he can get a look at Romani. “Can you do me a favor and come bother Romani? He’s overworking himself again and I think he could use a reminder not to do that.” 

“I don’t believe you’ve put that call through,” Romani says without looking up, flatly not-quite-ignoring the whole process.

That’s fine. Merlin waits a few moments — another quick scan for Mash reveals that she’s gone wide-eyed and had to take some time to gently set Fou down before she can respond. That’s to be expected, and Merlin only taps his fingers a little bit. “U-um,” Mash starts, a little crackly across the connection. “Merlin? Is everything all right?”

“No one’s hurt, no need to fret.” Merlin grins without really meaning to as he catches sight of Romani’s response, lifted head and narrowed eyes as if to say _don’t you dare_. It’s required weaponizing teenage girls, but he _has_ found a way to be obnoxious. “But I think Romani and I could really use company for a little while so he’ll stop trying to do all the work in Chaldea.”

“It’s not _all_ the work—!” 

Romani’s protest comes just as Mash nods an assent. “I can do that. Oh, but— Fou will probably follow me.”

“That’s fine,” Merlin says over Romani’s quiet grumbling. “If you and Romani are both here, he’ll probably want one of you to pet or hold him.” That’s what comes with being a cat’s favorite person. “ _Probably_ more than he’ll want to eviscerate me. Come on, I promise it’ll be fine.” 

“Well... all right.” There’s a whisper of a sound; Merlin glances over to see her nod. “We’ll be over soon, then.” 

“Excellent.” Merlin closes the connection and turns to see Romani glowering at him. In the face of that Merlin just grins, and goes to sit down where he was, this time lazily stretching his legs out and leaning back on his hands as if he’s completely unconcerned. “You’d better finish whatever you’re doing,” Merlin tells him. “I don’t know how fast Mash walks, but it probably won’t be ten minutes before she shows.”

Some impulses clearly war in the way Romani hesitates, one hand half-raised, a frown on his face; but evidently he decides the opportunity to finish what he was working on is worthwhile enough to buckle down to it, and Merlin lets him without being further obnoxious. 

After all, the second Romani looks away Merlin’s taking his computer. He can be a little magnanimous in light of that.

It’s not ten minutes but fifteen later that Mash shows up, flannel-clad and slightly embarrassed at the door. “I ran into Senpai on the way here,” she says, not quite apologetically. 

Ritsuka elbows into the room behind her, beaming, and levels a dramatic fingerpoint at Merlin. “We will provide the services you require, at a _price_ ,” the savior of humanity announces. 

Merlin is pretty sure he knows what the price is going to be, and ventures the deal before she can demand it. “Get the good doctor away from his laptop and you can play with my hair until you need to sleep.”

“Hey,” both Ritsuka and Romani say in unison. Fou trots into view somewhere on ground level, pauses to twine around Mash’s ankles — he eyes Merlin and then turns his little kitty nose up with something that sounds a whole lot like a _hmph_. 

“Did you see what I was going to ask?” Ritsuka wants to know, eyes narrowly suspicious.

“No,” Merlin says cheerfully, “you’re just predictable. I don’t come with brushes, though, so you’ll have to make do.”

“Doctor Roman, do you have one we can borrow?” Ritsuka turns her second-best pleading gaze on Romani, links her hands together in front of her to add to the image. “Pleeeeeease.” 

“It’s hardly hygienic to share hair-care tools,” Romani grouses. “But I might have something I haven’t used, maybe...” He hesitates again, gaze flickering between Merlin and his laptop.

Merlin smiles innocently, as if he has no evil plots whatsoever.

“If you don’t show me where it is I’m just going to have to poke around your _entire_ bathroom,” Ritsuka says pointedly. 

“Whatever happened to not wanting to poke around in my things?” Romani asks despairingly; but he does get up, absently brushing down his clothes as he straightens. “Fine, fine...”

“This is in service of a greater cause.” Ritsuka stays straightfacedly earnest as she trails Romani to the ensuite, with the barest exception for a quick wink over her shoulder at Mash and Merlin.

Mash flashes a quick smile at Merlin in turn. “I thought Senpai would probably be faster,” she says in an undertone. “Do you need any help?”

Merlin shakes his head. “Watch this.” A one, a two, a quiet Welsh murmur, and the laptop vanishes from view. He leans in that direction to feel for it, gently closes the lid, and then picks up the piece of nothing. “Where would you say he normally keeps this? Desk drawer?”

“I think so.” Mash goes to the work desk at the side of the room, tugs each of the drawers in turn as Ritsuka’s voice escalates in the bathroom, loudly declamatory. “Um... this one has a lock, but isn’t locked, so it’s probably this one.”

“Great.” Merlin fits the laptop into the empty space, closes the drawer, and beats feet across the room back to the kotatsu, to settle down as if he was totally doing nothing wrong. Mash sits primly next to him, tucking one side of her hair back behind her ear. 

“Fou?” Cath Palug puts inquisitive paws up on Mash’s thigh, tilting his head up at her. 

“Oh,” she says, “of course—” and picks him up, bundling him into her arms with that same casual ease she’s always had around him, as if he was not full of knives. It’s this pastoral scene that Romani and Ritsuka come back to, Ritsuka with a brush and hairties in her hands and a sense of mischief about her person. 

Romani just gives the empty table a wearied, resigned look. “I guess I’m done with work for the evening, huh.” 

“Yep,” Ritsuka chirps, and plonks herself down behind Merlin. “Don’t feel bad, it took three of us. Now!” And Merlin feels the tug of firm hands in his hair. “Merlin, do you ever _brush_ this?” 

“It keeps itself, more or less.” By which he means, he runs his fingers through it when he needs to, and bothers to clean himself with magic, and otherwise Avalon handles sustaining. Chaldea is becoming an adjustment just in terms of the _upkeep_ now required of himself. “You really don’t need to appoint yourself my personal hairdresser, I’m more than capable of handling myself.”

“Who says that’s what I was going to do?” Ritsuka rejoins. It feels like she’s separating out portions to pull the brush through. 

“You were talking earlier about just wanting an excuse,” Mash says, in tones of gentle accusation. 

“Traitor.” Ritsuka’s voice holds no heat as she starts working. “Pass me those hairties?”

It lulls into a dangerous sense of ease, this exchange, with Mash murmuring largely at Romani and Ritsuka chiming in cheerfully every now and then though she stays focused primarily on Merlin’s hair. Romani gets up to make tea, and with the company there he only has to put the kettle on once, and the mug doesn’t go sad and coldly forgotten on the table. At one point Ritsuka peremptorily demands flowers, hand reaching around Merlin’s shoulder to beckon where he can barely see it. And when he’s given her big pink peonies and little red campions, she grumbles and demands something blue. 

Merlin sighs and adds forget-me-nots. “I’m perfectly capable of putting flowers in my own hair.”

“Yes,” Ritsuka says, sounding rather like she has a flower clenched in her teeth. “But it’s not about there _being_ flowers in your hair. It’s about the process of getting them there, which is currently my job, thank you very much.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, and so demands to be dealt in to whatever card game Mash and Romani are starting to concoct instead.

All in all, they wind up abed far later than any of them _meant_ to, but Merlin finds a strange sort of peace as he settles down next to Romani — something which itself has become somehow habitual, and alarmingly so. It would be easy-so-easy to assume a world where he’s not only allowed but encouraged this closeness, and he begins to take the presence of a person, _this_ person, for granted in the simple fact of his warmth. 

Lying down beside him, chaste as it is, makes something in Merlin’s chest ache less than it had. 

Normally, this should be grounds for fleeing. He could go sleep in the closet instead. But by this point of the evening, he’ll disturb Romani if he tries to get up, so Merlin accedes to this excuse as good enough reason to simply put his head down and regard the play of shadows across Romani’s face instead. 

Perhaps it’s fine to let things warm a little.


	8. his tale was not over

Merlin’s slowly ceasing to be surprised when he wakes, out of a sleep that began at a perfectly polite distance, to find his face is pressed into Romani’s shoulder and he's splayed an arm over Romani's chest, as if to hold him there. Every little part of him is turning traitor these days, it seems. He peels himself reluctantly away from the siren song of warm blankets and warmer bedfellow, hoping to get away with it clean.

Unfortunately for those ambitions, sitting up far enough reveals Romani’s very open eyes, and the thoughtful look on his face. Merlin assesses the geometry of the situation and concludes that he cannot, in fact, vault Romani and head for the door at any sort of speed. Not with this little leverage. 

But “Good morning,” is all Romani says, in turn extricating himself from the covers. He has the flannel pajamas with the little smiling ice cream cones on again, incongruous with the form that lately belonged to the king of mages and quite technically still does. 

The incongruity only serves to make him more endearing. Unfair. Merlin sprawls out across the empty bed in spite, resting his chin on his forearms and watching Romani’s morning routine with lidded eyes up till the point that he disappears into the bathroom. Now given the opportunity to bolt into the wild metal corridors, Merlin... doesn’t. 

Instead he takes up Romani’s bed and observes Romani’s morning as if he belongs there, as if he has the grace to be part of a routine and a life simply by being physically present. Which he— supposes he sort of does. The fact of his summoning argues with the strong feeling that this is something that _isn’t for him_ , and ultimately ends in utter inertia. 

Somewhere after Merlin’s watching has turned to lazy contemplation of the issues at hand, Romani pauses in front of him, looking very much ready to leave the room for the day. The realization of the disparate levels is visibly made; Romani crouches to put them roughly at eye level, though not close enough for kissing and _why did Merlin just have that thought_.

He’d slap himself if Romani wasn’t looking meaningfully at him. “Are you going to stay there all day?” Romani wants to know.

“Considering it,” Merlin says with all the laziness he has in him. He tries to project a lack of concern and honestly has no idea if he succeeds. “If I’m here, we can socialize whenever you’re done and I don’t have to talk to anyone else.”

Romani’s mouth crimps faintly, though whether it’s amusement or resignation is anyone’s guess. And Merlin’s braced for some effort at making him socialize, anyway; but Romani shakes his head and says, “Well, if you get bored or hungry, you know how to fix those problems; other than that, you should have everything you need here.” 

Merlin buries his face in the crook of his elbow to signal a very mature end to the conversation. Something stirs his hair as Romani’s clothes rustle, and then his footsteps recede. 

Probably sheer force of wishful thinking.

The sound of the door says when he’s gone, and Merlin stays put another several minutes out of stubbornness, and also in case Romani turns around and comes back to surprise him. Stranger things have happened.

But there’s nothing, and no one. Eventually Merlin sits up, shedding blankets, and his Ritsuka-gifted braid thumps against his back. He can still smell the flowers.

Romani’s room seems significantly larger now, unoccupied by anyone else. In theory this should be a comfort — no pressures of social interaction, a room that can definitely be locked from the inside to prevent any hopeful invaders from coming after his hair — but Merlin finds that he just feels a bit empty, and perhaps a bit lost.

He could go sit in the closet again.

And, in fact, after stealing some additional selections of Romani’s clothes to wear, Merlin does exactly that, tucking himself into the corner of the closet and leaning back with eyes half-closed to take a look around Chaldea and see who’s up to what. There are directions he won’t look — there always are — white and blue and gold makes him twitchy in direct combination, for instance, and habitual flinching has him looking away from people like Bedivere and Lancelot.

Even so, the knights don’t monopolize the whole of the facility; there’s plenty of entertainment to be had just poking around. What Ritsuka’s up to in the simulator, for instance, and ogling Romani from a distance as he does very professional things in the medical sector. Da Vinci is doing many clever computer things even as her clever hands are busy with some bit of shining tinkering — Merlin suspects, but cannot confirm, that the auxiliary problem sharpens her approach to the primary one. In the cafeteria, a budding food fight is quelled by a stern look from the red-coated cook and a word about _wasting resources_.

It’s all very familiar and close and homey. Merlin takes his gaze further abroad, so he’s not too tempted to go and start trouble. There are always interesting things to watch, one way or another.

An hour later, having skipped between theatres on three different continents and found _nothing good on_ , Merlin is forced to admit that he’s sort of bored. Which, wild, because this was never a problem when he was confined to a tower and _didn’t_ have pointless random socializing as an option in the first place. It’s like having the freedom to make those choices makes him want them more.

Worse, he finds himself absently homing in on people he knows. Some wounds still don’t abide being pressed on — he consciously and intentionally has _no_ idea where his king is — but in the process of discovering how awfully, terribly bored he is, Merlin finds that Bedivere is helping out down in medical, and Gawain has coaxed a couple of Celts into sparring _outside_ the simulator, which means someone administrative and stern is probably about to come down on them like a ton of bricks. Not Merlin’s problem, though probably hilarious to watch.

Also, Tristan is hanging out near one of the corridors going unused due to structural integrity problems, just ... playing his harp. That’s the weirdest part. There’s at least one music room, and a few of the others meant for general leisure have since been co-opted by the store of heroic musicians Chaldea has adopted. It’s not like Tristan has no place to go to tinker with melodies, although Merlin supposes that he might not want to be at war with a spontaneously generated pipe organ.

There’s just... something a little wrong. Merlin can’t even place why he thinks that — just a tiny instinct nagging at him, one born from the place between clairvoyance and memory. And he wonders:

What _have_ Lancelot and Bedivere been telling their brothers-in-arms?

He doesn’t mean to get up. He doesn’t mean to go to the door. In fact it’s possible, he thinks, dreamy-distant as he slips out into the halls, that he may be possessed, for willingly going to talk to any of the knights of the Round Table shouldn’t be something he does. Perhaps a wild temporary madness has overtaken him — perhaps the summon system and Romani’s invocation of his names reminded his essence that he has been a madman as much as a prophet — perhaps the heady feeling of aching weightlessness that he had experienced in the wake of Lancelot’s cruel empathy had affected his better judgment.

There are many reasons it could happen. Plenty of excuses Merlin could make, and continues to make, to himself. All of them, though, mean he sits down beside Tristan on the chill metal of the floor, in that strangely chosen place where repairs wait and Chaldea puts itself on hold, and he waits.

“Here you are,” Tristan says at length, but peaceably, and his hands on the strings of his harp don’t pause, as if Merlin is only the barest of interruptions.

Merlin might appreciate that. Maybe. “Why here?” he asks. “I can’t imagine the acoustics are much better than any of the common spaces.”

“Yes,” Tristan says, “but certain people won’t venture to common rooms, these days, and incidental violence is less frequent out here.”

“Ah.” Merlin is pretty sure he’s _certain people_ , in this context. “Great.”

The less chance of interruption, the better, he guesses. And then mentally smacks himself for guessing, because of course he wants interruptions, whatever conversation is imminent isn’t one he wants to have at all, he’ll flee as soon as he can and doesn’t know why he’s here in the first place...

That train of thoughts rings more hollow than it did. Merlin doesn’t examine why.

Tristan doesn’t provide anything more, just the sound of the harp. Merlin sits with the melody and the knight. He doesn’t recognize the song — maybe he should. Nostalgia twines through him like barbed wire, heedless of all the modern trappings around them.

This is definitely a trap. He just doesn’t know what kind. And the more Tristan does _nothing_ the more Merlin’s convinced that he should have stayed in Romani’s room, except that now he’s not sure how to gracefully leave.

He doesn’t need to be graceful. He can just get up and go. Great talk, he’ll say, and vanish with a sparkle. Get away scot-free. 

He doesn’t move.

Tristan _might_ be a sadist. Merlin speculates. He fidgets with the tail end of his braid, changes the way he’s sitting once, twice. Decides the sleeves on this turtleneck absolutely need to be rolled up — five minutes later decides his forearms are cold and puts them back down.

 _What does Tristan want_.

“You could have just cornered me near Romani’s room,” Merlin complains.

“This is more interesting,” Tristan says. There is a sort of serenity about him Merlin both envies and despises at once.

Merlin heaves a hugely exasperated sigh. “It’s a weird way to punish me for my sins.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Tristan points out. The melody shifts — Merlin is sure he should know this one, and yet can’t put a name to it. “You are welcome to hold a conversation with me about anything you wish.”

Getting his head around the angles of that leaves Merlin scowling, but at empty air rather than really at Tristan. “Fine,” he says. He doesn’t like how short and snappish it comes out. “...fine. How’s— life?”

Tristan’s mouth quirks, but in a gracefully melancholy way that few other people can manage. “Life,” he repeats. “So to speak.”

It is, Merlin recalls, perhaps not the best way to begin a conversation with someone who has already died, but he has never won any prizes for tact and sure doesn’t intend to start now. “Chaldea,” he amends.

“I’m surprised you don’t know already.” Tristan isn’t looking at him, but Tristan is rarely looking at anybody; that’s not really any kind of tell.

“Ahhh, I haven’t looked.” Merlin himself glances away, well aware he’s losing something, if there’s even a battle to lose. “It didn’t seem like my business.”

“I wonder about you, Merlin,” Tristan says. His tone is something idle, floaty. “I suppose I did in Camelot, too. It’s hard work for you to seem unaffected, isn’t it?”

There’s no answer to that which goes well, really. Merlin lets out his breath in a slow measured sigh, and though he tries to shape the lie his voice doesn’t come out with it. _It’s not that hard, since I’m not very affected at all,_ he says in the place where he’s still a good liar.

Ah, what’s happened to him these days.

Tristan allows some uncomfortable time to stretch out, as his melody devolves into single string-plucks that reverberate and still. “That’s what I thought,” he says at length. “The immortal that loves those who will die is not a new story, nor was it when we were young. Well, then, shall I tell you that everything in Chaldea is just as it was? That it is as if no swords were drawn against each other, and no battle came to bear? Here is the shine of Camelot, and the tragedy at Camlann—”

His hands stop entirely. There is no discord — but Merlin thinks, perhaps, that is only because the harp no longer sounds. “As if it never happened,” Tristan says softly.

Merlin considers the merits of hypocrisy. “I wondered, a little,” he admits quietly. “If the turn through the Throne was enough to set what was between some of you to rest.”

“Lancelot and Gawain play chess, most recently,” Tristan says. “I think you know better than I how they left things.”

Bloody and furious. Yes. Merlin lets his breath out slowly, measured.

“And that might be simply Gawain having made up his mind, as he does— but Sir Mordred keeps company among our number not infrequently, and while none have precisely _invited_ him, none turn him away, either. Not even our king.” There’s a graceful sort of frown on Tristan’s face, the sort that would be less pretty on another man. “So. As if it never happened.”

“ _Ah_ ,” Merlin says, understanding better now, and not really liking it for himself. Though he’s not sure what right he, of all people, has to do anything about it — if in fact he should — if in fact he _could_. “Have you considered that it might truly be the merits of forgiveness? I hear that changes a man.”

Tristan arches an impeccable brow. “Have you?” he asks, and starts up with the harp again.

It’s Merlin’s turn to frown at him. “That doesn’t make any sense, as a rebuttal,” he informs Tristan. “Of course I’ve _considered_ that sort of thing.”

Just also put it aside as not to be had, at least for himself. Still, he’s not the one being discussed here. But Tristan doesn’t answer, and Merlin rattles the shapes of new information around in his head like dice before the roll.

Clever, he decides, a little while later. Tristan’s set it up so that to confirm anything one way or another, Merlin’s going to have to go and have emotionally honest conversations with _more_ people. Of course he can just watch — as he does — but it’s harder to tell intentions and motivations from a distance, even with sight like his.

And all of this is the urge to _meddle_ again, when Merlin himself lives imprisoned for that, and all of those he knew then are, despite current evidence to the contrary, long since dead.

“You know,” he says eventually, “I don’t know why you’re telling me all this.”

“You asked,” Tristan says, with that same idle aloofness he’d had before, now recovered. “And moreover, Merlin, I would think with all you’ve said of the stories of humanity, you’d be terribly bored with a... what is the term, now? A rerun.”

Feeling seen by those he’s gone to significant efforts to keep himself apart from does not get any less frustrating for repetition. “You’re all _dead_ ,” he says, sharp before he can think better of it. As if Tristan has somehow missed this key pearl of knowledge. “The ending of this story doesn’t change, no matter how—”

His teeth click shut over more pained words, and for once Merlin blesses the throat that closes up over genuine _feeling_.

“But there are other ways to tell it,” Tristan points out, once he’s allowed enough time for Merlin to put more words into the harp-scored backdrop if he pleases. “Are there not?”

Merlin doesn’t know. He genuinely doesn’t. “Maybe.”

Tristan’s playing changes again. Merlin listens to the melody, bearing it out several more notes and grateful for the reason not to speak; this one he eventually recognizes as Greensleeves. Wonderful, cheerful mood music.

“The trouble with tragedies,” Tristan says eventually, “is that they’re unavoidable. That’s the point of them.”

“Somehow, not reassuring,” Merlin grumbles.

Definitely an amused quirk to Tristan’s expression. “What I mean is, there is no way to prevent a hero from a hero’s death without making him no longer a hero. Do you see? A tragedy may be turned aside if any one point is different, but then it is no longer a tragedy, simply unfortunate events. The grief of a tragedy is that you cannot save the doomed without fundamentally changing them.”

Unintentionally, unwillingly, Merlin’s thoughts drag to Solomon. It would be possible, he supposes, for Romani to have done something different — to run from his last vision, rather than move toward it. Merlin had frankly thought that of him for some time, until chatting with Romani made the truth coalesce painfully.

He had given himself up on purpose, intentionally, with eyes wide open, and there was no other thing that could have been done in that moment. Romani would not be himself if he didn’t have that willingness, that terrible disregard for the grief of others that any number of heroes have had before and after him. The easy calm of saying, _my life is not too great a price to pay for that of all the world_.

 _Heroes_. Ugh.

“I have the concept,” Merlin says at last. “Just not what you want me to do with it.”

“Do?” Tristan shrugs. The motion doesn’t at all interrupt the strings. “I wouldn’t presume to dictate to the sage.”

Now _that_ is sarcasm. Merlin eyes him resentfully.

“And you’re too stubborn to dictate to,” Tristan adds. “As well as too familiar with the concept of reverse psychology. If there is one thing I _would_ say...”

Here, finally, it seems like Tristan has some trouble, and Merlin gives him the decency of not interrupting. Not least because Merlin has no idea what words he’d use here, either.

“...I would like to think that, having died, we might learn from our mistakes.” It isn’t what Merlin might have expected; and, judging from the expression on Tristan’s face, he’s not sure it’s entirely what Tristan meant to go for, either. Especially given it’s not any sort of command, injunction, or request.

Just... hope.

“I’m not sure I have,” Merlin tells him, “but I haven’t given dying a try, either.”

“It’s a miserable experience,” Tristan says. Merlin believes it, but also kind of wishes Tristan didn’t look a little smug about that. As if pleased with knowing something Merlin _doesn’t_ , after all.

“I’ll take that into consideration,” says Merlin, who well knows his death is long away. “Do you take requests?”

Tristan doesn’t laugh, which is sort of what Merlin was going for. Perhaps he’s too melancholy, still, after all, him and his life marked out by tragedy. But he stops playing for a moment, and turns one hand over in invitation, and Merlin takes that for an opening.

And somehow, after that, the lack of conversation is easier to bear. Merlin still doesn’t stay too very long, but... it’s something. It’s different than it was before. That means more than he can truly express or even acknowledge.


	9. and he did not cease

Most of the things Tristan said linger with him, even when Merlin’s gone back to hiding in Romani’s room. He reclaims the pajamas on impulse, occupies Romani’s bed to contemplate. It’s disappointingly empty, and significantly less warm than it was when Merlin left it earlier. That’s what he gets for getting up.

Crucially, Tristan’s notes have implied to Merlin that he is also going to have to contend with _Mordred_ , and that’s complicated, to say the least. Mordred was a knight of the Round Table in good standing for some time, after all, independent of his identity — and even Merlin, knowing what was coming, hadn’t spotted that particular issue before it was far too late. So there was good sentiment there.

For a time.

Merlin catches himself thinking all these things, stands outside them for a moment. _Contend with_. He’s thinking like the meddler again: the one who sees the patterns of things and intercedes to change them as if he has the right. Nothing says he has to, or that he’s going to...

He laughs bitterly to himself, sprawling out and dropping his forearm over his eyes. He’s going to. He can feel that inevitability. It was probably Lancelot, that was the tipping point; now his fingers are so deep in the pie he’s not going to be able to leave it alone. He can’t hide forever, caught within Chaldea’s walls, and he won’t know if something’s _truly_ amiss until he’s confirmed Tristan’s point of view, and...

How long did he last? Not even a week. There was a _reason_ he had locked himself away, a reason he had — well — provoked Viviane a _little_ beyond just her opinions of his foresight and duties to avoid disaster for those the son of the lake loved.

When it comes down to it, if he has even a hint of an opportunity, Merlin really can’t help himself.

Although the matter of Artoria is still a knotty one... well. Perhaps he can somehow avoid her, Merlin tries to think, and he almost believes it.

If nothing else, he can probably backdoor it through giving Ritsuka the idea to lock him in a room with Artoria, but that feels like cheating. Also, the fact he’s even considering it is a problem to begin with.

He spends a reasonable amount of time there — not _wallowing_ , he tells himself firmly, just thinking through the problems and what is and is not clearly impossible. It _is_ nice not to have to worry about people today, despite his own moment of idiocy regarding Tristan. Except that when he gets bored of contemplating, somehow his first impulse is to look for Romani.

Who’s still working. Of course he is. Merlin checks the time — acceptable, he guesses — then checks around Romani’s office for any sign that he’s eaten recently. Nope. Okay, plan. Merlin heaves himself out of bed, conceals himself, and goes to get some food for both of them.

Between the mess of Servants and human staff in the cafeteria, Merlin slips through unnoticed, though he does make the rookie mistake of forgetting to conceal the _tray_ he’s holding for a hot few seconds. Only Jack sees him, so it’s probably fine. Then it’s back across to medical, where Merlin slips in through a door that opens for him and laughs soundlessly to himself when a nurse looks confused at the empty space in the door.

Romani’s office opens for Merlin, too, and he sets the tray down pointedly on top of some forms. There’s an almost-empty coffee cup here — he is pretty sure Romani’s just keeping up the coffee habit out of, well, habit — and Merlin picks it up just as Romani reaches for it, himself drinking the dregs mostly to be an annoyance.

“I know you’re there, Merlin,” Romani says, wiggling his fingers in the space where the coffee cup was.

Oh, right, illusion again. Merlin drops it and points meaningfully at the tray, making a face belatedly. “This is stone cold, and there are no used dishes around. If I have to eat, you have to eat.” Bet Romani hadn’t bargained for summoning a _nursemaid_. “I’m surprised Da Vinci hasn’t made you yet.”

“She’s got more things to worry about than me.” Romani eyes the coffee cup still in Merlin’s hand, then sighs and reaches for the tray. “Am I getting that back?”

“Maybe,” Merlin says, and moves to put it down in the far corner of the room, for maximum obnoxious. “Also, I’m going to insist you stop working before bedtime, so factor that into your calculations.”

Romani makes a quiet frustrated noise. “The volume of things that need to be done doesn’t drop just because you and Ritsuka and Da Vinci tell it to.”

 _Kings_ , Merlin gripes in the privacy of his brain. He perches on the edge of the desk, pats his knee in the invitation to an unburdening of troubles. “So! Tell me about all these many things taking up your time, and then tell me why each one can’t be delegated.”

He gets a dirty look for his troubles, meets it with his best cheerful smile. “Come on,” Merlin says, more coaxingly. “You can’t tell me you’re worried about operational security with _me_.”

Softly Romani huffs, shakes his head. “It’s nothing. All right. Part of this is reconciliation of all the time I was— out.” A delicate clearing of his throat. “Which includes personnel records, supply manifests, the redaction of reports, and so on. Everyone did their best in the interim, but there were enough inconsistencies in staffing and people taking over new roles that it’s useful to have one unifying view point go back and collate everything. And that’s just the catchup work. Current duties include overseeing the medical division, some recruitment background work despite the technical hiring freeze, oversight of the reports coming in from field agents—“

Merlin had missed the field agents. He needs to look at _those_. And somehow, Romani’s list of responsibilities is _still going_.

“—management of Chaldea’s power requirements, which apparently aren’t as reduced as we thought because leyshifts to manage pseudo-singularities are still needed...” Romani looks rather like he has a headache, and also like there might be twice again as much list.

Helpfully, Merlin reaches out and covers his mouth to cut off the list. “Come on, someone else _has_ to be capable of managing the generators and whatever power-sharing agreements you have with other countries. _I_ can do that, if no one else can.” And frankly that’s how they should know that someone else _should_ be doing it.

Over the barrier of his fingers, Romani blinks at him, apparently too bemused to immediately disapprove. Since it worked, Merlin sees no reason to _stop_. “Anyway,” he says, “I helped with your power before and didn’t break anything then, so you can definitely put me in charge of it. There, delegation. See how easy that is?”

The expression around Romani’s eyes shifts delicately to something like resignation, which Merlin recognizes immediately on account of frequently being the target of resignation, frustration, and exasperation. Often all three at once. And while Merlin’s distracted with the nuance of Romani’s feelings, and maybe a little by his gold eyes, Romani resorts to the most childish tactics possible and licks Merlin’s fingers.

He’s going to have to try harder than that. Merlin was forged in the fires of obnoxious assholery, and so instead of flinching back he just raises his eyebrows at Romani, _are-you-serious_ writ as clearly as he can make it in the motion.

The space between Romani’s brows knits faintly, frownily, and he snags hold of Merlin, fingers circling his wrist loosely at first, then with a bit more force as it becomes evident Merlin is in fact going to fight him about it. Merlin gives it up when Romani applies two hands, lets him pry Merlin’s hand away from his mouth and drag it down, and—

Ah, but Romani’s touch _burns_ , doesn’t it. His fingers don’t have the calluses they might have in his previous life, and his grip when he’s achieved his goal becomes softer, enough that a delusional man might call it tender. For some awful moment Merlin can’t think of anything but the heat where Romani’s touch curves around his wrist, where his fingertips rest on Merlin’s palm.

Helpfully, his thoughts provide the immediate recollection of the warm flicker of Romani’s tongue.

They might as well have gone completely blank; Merlin can’t _think_. He stares at Romani’s mouth for embarrassingly long before it occurs to him to just _move away,_ and even that he stumbles over, steadying only when he’s three feet away.

Romani watches this with a new and different frown. “Is everything all right?”

“Fine,” Merlin says automatically. He shoves his hands into his pockets, puts on a disaffected slouch, and nods to the tray. “You should eat.”

Looking of similar grumpiness, Romani pointedly pulls the tray a bit closer to him. “I’m working on it, but it’s a little difficult to talk and eat. Merlin...”

“ _Food._ ” Merlin backs off to sit in the corner in front of Romani’s coffee cup, like nothing so much as an oversized guard dog. He reasons that running or trying to vanish will just make Romani pursue the issue that something might be wrong more. This is less suspicious.

And it isn’t that anything’s wrong. Not really. Just that attraction is a hell of a drug.

While Merlin watches him lurkily, Romani condescends to eat, and apparently finds himself hungrier than he thought he was. Ah, overworkers. Merlin’s glad he’s never developed _that_ much of a work ethic, it seems awful. When Romani’s done enough, Merlin lets himself be browbeaten into eating the last third of the food, just so that Romani can feel he’s won something over Merlin’s well-being that day.

“I’ll pop this back to the cafeteria before anyone gets fussy about it,” Merlin says when he, too, is done. It’s as good an excuse as any to go. He levels a mock-serious fingerpoint at Romani as he goes. “On my way out I’ll be checking when you got here, and if you get back more than nine hours after that I will take vengeance.” And that timeline is exercising the marvelous generosity of assuming Romani has taken any breaks at any time during the day after deciding he has responsibilities to catch up on.

Romani blinks back at him, owlish and uncertain. “What kind of vengeance?”

“...frogs,” Merlin says, after a few moments groping for something creative and just not finding it. He blames Romani’s face for distracting him. “Frogs everywhere.”

“Well,” Romani says, “that’s just what you used for Ritsuka. Don’t I even get a unique revenge?”

What that _sounds_ like is a man who’s under the impression he is safe, and is also calling Merlin’s bluff. “If I tell you about it, that’ll spoil the surprise,” Merlin tries.

This appears to make Romani suspicious instead. “I don’t think you have anything planned at all.”

 _Stop calling his bluffs_. “I’ll make you embarrassingly late for tomorrow’s work and make sure everyone knows it’s because you’re a hypocrite about work-life balance,” Merlin threatens, and ducks out the door before he can see the reaction.

He figures at a last resort he’ll enlist the rest of the medical staff, but he’s not sure if they have any teeth to get Romani to do anything, given that he’s technically their boss, and also King Solomon. Actually, he should check with Romani later on how public that knowledge is... ah, well. At least for right now they’re kind enough to advise him on when Romani got in, so that’s a start.

For now Merlin wanders off to return the tray, in case some enterprising young thing wants to use it to go tray sledding for reasons definitely not related to him mentioning it in earshot of the easily enthused. He has some time to kill before he can really judge Romani’s work habits any more.

Merlin actually does use that time to go bother one of Chaldea’s big generators, slipping in with his fancy authorizations to get a look at it. Since it’s technically at least related to the things he’s volunteered to eyeball. The mechanical parts aren’t his forte, but he entertains himself getting to know it a little, and remembering how to hook into it if he needs to, to relay power. Figuring out how to do that from _today’s_ metaphysical position relative to Avalon is a different problem, but not an unsolvable or even overcomplicated one.

He gets back to the room he shares with Romani a little after the arbitrary deadline he’d imposed, partially for the sake of being anti-social and partly because he’s giving Romani a little extra time to notice he’s late and bolt across the huge complex of Chaldea. What Merlin’s expecting at best is flustered and running late; what he _gets_ is Romani sitting dignified at the kotatsu with tea and a book.

This is suspicious. Merlin checks outside the door, as if he might see that it’s someone else’s room secretly, and then slips inside on hesitant feet, eying Romani for clues as to what’s going on here. “I was expecting to have to pry you out of medical with a crowbar.”

Romani glances up, then smiles sheepishly, which turns what might have been an impending _we need to talk_ into something softer. “I can’t believe you’re already on my case about that. You haven’t even been here that long. I haven’t even been back at work for that long!”

“Please,” Merlin says dismissively. “You’ve been a chronic overworker since you became Director, if not before. I didn’t have to be clairvoyant to know _that_.” He considers the kotatsu. There’s an unused teacup out, and the teapot still steams faintly like it might have some tea left in it. “We practically had to force a bag over your head to get you to take a four-hour nap, _if_ that much. It’s not a stretch to start nagging you about it.”

“‘We?’” Romani repeats.

“King Gilgamesh and I.” Whoops. Sounds like Romani hadn’t been filled in on the culprits of that escapade after all. Merlin goes to the closet in search of flannel, and ducks into it to change his shirt at least. If they’re going to have weirdly personal conversations, he’s damned well going to be cozy. “And if you think Da Vinci didn’t know about it, then you’ve wildly underestimated how many pies she has her fingers in.”

But Romani doesn’t say anything immediately; and when Merlin re-emerges from the closet, freshly beflanneled, he sees that Romani is very visibly blushing, hot across his brown cheeks. Thoughtfully, Merlin plonks down opposite him, and then reaches over the kotatsu to poke him in the cheek.

Obviously he has not learned his lesson about skin contact from earlier — Romani yelps and bats his hand away, more startled than offended, and Merlin has to cope with the annoying static-prickle tingles that Romani’s touch seems to do to him sometimes. “Warn me, will you?”

There’s irony in the formerly-omniscient asking to be warned. Merlin doesn’t comment on this, just snags the teapot to pour a cup for himself. When he laces his fingers around it, heat sinks through porcelain to warm him, too, and the earlier strange reaction to touch smooths away. “You were acting weird,” he says, and settles down into coziness.

“Was not.” The objection sounds automatic. Romani goes back to his book, or at least bends his head over it, though by the lack of turning pages after a little while Merlin suspects he is not _actually_ reading. Some few minutes later, Romani visibly gives up and closes the book. “Well—”

“I _thought_ so,” Merlin says, vindicated.

Romani gives him a dirty look. “There actually was something I was wondering,” he says, pressing ahead with a sort of pointedness. “Since I have you here.”

Merlin does suppose that getting to know each other was one of the things he agreed to, and after all the only other recourse is probably sitting here over tea in a weird awkward quiet that he isn’t sure how to break or flee. “May as well.”

“How long,” Romani starts, and breaks off, shakes his head. “That is— why did you _start_ Magi*Mari? Were you always?”

Oh, he had to ask. Merlin rests his elbow on the table, his chin in that hand, and thinks about what to tell Romani. The first answer is easy— it’s the rest that are going to give him the wrong idea if Merlin’s not careful. “She was always me, yep,” he says. “Top to bottom, start to finish. It wasn’t like I stole some poor unfortunate idol’s website, after all.”

Romani’s mouth quirks. “Just a whim, then? Your first HTML project?”

“Please, does that look like an amateur’s work?” Merlin sniffs. Well, there’s probably no harm in at least part of the truth. “No. I also didn’t create her _just_ to catfish you, although that was a nice side bonus.” Oh look, he’s blushing again. “I thought it would be good to have a backdoor line into Chaldea’s operations, back when I was first getting a look at you lot. You’re not the only person on the staff who likes idols, and definitely not the only mage. I may have done some very targeted advertising.”

“Do you know, I don’t even remember how I heard about Magi*Mari in the first place,” Romani says. He finally caves to shutting his book instead of just marking the page with a finger, closes it and sets it down. “Just that it was a while before things started going… you know. Did you speak to everyone individually, like you did me?”

Ah, _that’s_ what this is, Merlin recognizes. It’s a very human desire, to be special even when you’re on a planet full of seven billion people all wanting to be unique. And it can be, he’s informed, both vindicating and crushing at once to be informed you’re not.

And to ask that sort of thing of someone who could be a lover...

There’s a reflexive mental wall to slam in front of that thought, and then the ache in his chest that reminds Merlin he actually has chosen _not_ to cut this nonsense out of him so he does, in fact, have to cope with baby steps around the outskirts of the issue. At least, in this case, the truth is both easy and practical.

“Of course not,” Merlin says, with an easy smile. “Not everyone was the King of Mages, after all. I had to pay extra attention to you.”

See? Just business.

“That makes sense.” Romani glances away from Merlin — directionless at first, then visibly making up his mind to pour more tea for himself. “I suppose I’m just wondering... Like I said, I’m not angry with you about her, I just don’t know how much any of it means. And I want to know more.”

That is an entire can of worms. Merlin regrets being the one with the can opener. “How about this,” he says, intending to present an unappetizing counteroffer. “You tell me why you kept that rose — everything — and I’ll tell you everything I can about Magi*Mari.”

“Magi*Mari as she pertains to Merlin,” Romani corrects, hands loose around his tea. “Why that particular question?”

Merlin taps his fingers against each other, then against the table, then stops entirely so he doesn’t somehow give away anything in his fidgeting. “It doesn’t make sense,” he says. “It served its purpose, and by all accounts you weren’t so very fond of me. Why not compost it?”

“...in my defense,” Romani says, turtling a little, “you are _very_ shady and antagonistic sometimes.”

“I know,” Merlin says cheerfully, on steadier ground. “Not fit for human civilization, that’s me! And?”

Romani’s mouth presses into an unamused line. “You might at least try to argue.”

“Why?” Merlin wants to know. “It’s true.”

Even without clairvoyance, he swears he can almost see the shape of the argument to come, which will distract Romani from fulfilling his side of things about the rose, and therefore neatly get Merlin out of everything. Romani can say something about psychological health, Merlin can shrug it off or distract him with the demon thing... if Merlin’s unlucky they’ll get so far as Romani pointing out that Merlin clearly has an interest in people thinking about him that way, but he has distractions for that too.

Except that Romani bites off whatever he’d been about to say, and levels Merlin with a slightly differently annoyed look. “I know what you’re doing,” he says. He visibly squares himself. “And I’m not going to go along with that. I didn’t mean to keep the rose at first. I didn’t really _want_ it. I thought you were being obnoxious and maybe crude.”

“Well—” Merlin says.

Romani raises one finger — just one, with an intent gaze — and Merlin quiets, some old reflex taking over. “But it was beautiful,” he says. “And still living, and ultimately it was a gift, after all. I was sure I wanted it when King Gilgamesh nearly stole it; and just after that, it saved my life again. After all that, I think a compost heap is poor thanks.” There’s a quiet huff of laughter. “You might say it grew on me.”

Automatically Merlin’s mouth quirks for the pun, as rattled as he is by everything else going on. “I hear you have very nutritious blood.”

Now Romani out and out _harrumphs_. “It was the right choice not to warn Mash what it would do, but _honestly_. That was rude.”

“You have met me,” Merlin says dryly; but Romani just arches an eyebrow and doesn’t rise to that particular bait, instead provides a painful silence for Merlin to sit and process in.

Merlin’s not a total idiot. Not about everything. He can read a lot of subtext a mile away. He just... has a hard time acknowledging this one for some reason, and after some several moments opts to just put away the thought of having truly endeared himself to Romani.

Ah, bother, now he has to pay up. “There wasn’t anything else?” Merlin tries. He reasons that if there was something else, then Romani will probably look at least a little abashed, and if it was something he really doesn’t want to share, then there might still be a way out of this.

“I suppose,” Romani says, without flinching. “If you count the fact that I like flowers to begin with?”

Hm. Nope, that was useless, excepting that Merlin now has a great excuse to bury him in flowers and claim he thought he was helping when the pollen gets oppressive. “Fine,” Merlin says, sighing. “Fine. Look. Mari happened because I really did want a solid in with the staff here, but it’s not like you were _just_ a bonus. As soon as I figured out who you were, I knew I needed to keep an eye on things.”

He pauses, glances over and winks. It suffers from Merlin not being sure whether or not he _means_ it to be flirtatious. “Well, it’s not to say she wasn’t a fun side project, either! It’s fun to let loose a little, and it’s not like being her was a drag. A little composing here, a little accidental activism there, some fun with glitter...”

But all that isn’t what Romani wants to know, and both of them sitting here at this kotatsu are deeply aware of that. The real question sits somewhere in the air between them, heavy with potential in what neither of them are saying. Such a little thing, to have such weight. Merlin isn’t even sure if he _wants_ to answer. But.

 _But_. He said he would, so if he thinks of it as simply — paying a price — then perhaps it’s something that can be said. Merlin turns his head to stare at the metal wall, veils his own sight so he can pretend Romani’s not there.

“...it mattered,” Merlin manages finally. It’s too heavy, too _true_ — he forces his register upward, finds a cheer that, while brittle, is at least lighter. “That is. It’s true that kings need at least _someone_ to talk to! Human or not, above the people or not, no king is entirely a lone pillar. Sages and jesters, mages and consorts, living Noble Phantasms even— there’s always someone. Anyone. _Anyway_. I was thinking ahead. Thought if Doctor Roman at least got on with Mari, it’d be easier to shift things around in Chaldea if I had to. And...”

His throat dries. He swallows hard. He doesn’t have to say all of it, right? Just a little more to cap it off. “...well, after a while, I guess I got used to Romani being in my inbox all the time. People get used to anything, honestly. And I wasn’t bored at all, until the messages stopped.”

“It must often be very boring, in your tower,” says someone who might or might not be in the room with him.

Merlin shrugs. “I can see anything,” he says. “Every theatre, every movie. Avalon gets decent wifi, too. There’s no need for me to ever be bored.”

“Mmmh.” Noncommittal, but sounds agreeing. Excellent, that’s the sound of someone who isn’t calling him on any bullshit.

Not that there was a lot there, for once, which is... well, Merlin’s just not going to think about that. He nudges his illusion aside, turns his face down to his tea, and focuses just on that for a few moments; and when he looks up at Romani again he manages a good take on an impish grin. “Anyway! I’m really not sure what all you wanted to know out of that, but I think that’s the best I can do. There’s not that much else to say about why I was Mari, except that she was necessary.”

He can’t identify the look on Romani’s face at _all_. Only that Romani nods, and returns a gentle smile. “Thank you.”

Merlin doesn’t know what he’s done to be thanked for. “Sure,” he says offhandedly, dismissively. “Hey, where do you keep your books?”

For this Romani gets up, and shows Merlin to the small stash he has of physical novels that aren’t loaded on an e-reader. Merlin picks out one that looks agreeably terrible, promises to be careful with it, and settles down again. They pass the rest of the evening that way, not speaking of what’s been brought into the open even tangentially. Simply letting it rest where it may be seen.

Or aggressively not looked at, in Merlin’s case.

Merlin’s near the end of the book — shallow, but not _awful_ — when he remembers that time is a thing, and checks on it. Well past midnight; they’ve spent a few hours just like this. Romani might have gotten up to change books at one point. The teapot is long since empty.

Hmm. Merlin marks his page with his finger and taps the hard corner of the spine gently on the tabletop. “Should I be sending you to bed? I think I should be.”

Romani starts, glances over at the clock, and immediately looks vaguely guilty. “I don’t really _need_ to...”

“Well, if it’s just this once, I won’t tell anyone on you, since you’re not even working,” Merlin says agreeably. It must be too agreeable, since Romani starts eying him suspiciously before Merlin even follows up. “But I’m not sleeping if you’re not! Up to you, doctor.”

“Low blow.” Romani jabs an accusing finger at him.

It’s a very nice finger. Merlin hauls his easily distracted mind back. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he says. “I’m perfectly happy not sleeping! I’m used to it, even. You’re the one that keeps telling me about things like _health_ and _sleep cycles_.”

A standoff. Romani’s grip on his book tightens, then relaxes. “I’m going to finish this chapter,” he says firmly. “ _Then_ bed.”

“Whatever you say, doctor,” Merlin says, grinning the smug grin of a man who knows he’s won.

He’s pretty sure Romani takes two chapters to put the book down, but that’s fine. Merlin really doesn’t mind.

Nighttime ablutions culminate with Romani in smiling ice cream cones again, which Merlin appreciates for the humor of it. Definitely not looking at the man the ice cream is on. Just the fuzzy pajamas. He gets into bed first, tucking himself up against the wall, specifically so he can prop himself on one elbow and watch anthropomorphic ice cream cone man for the short period of time before the endearing desserts disappear under the covers.

Only the pajamas. Not the loose, clumsily done white braid that drapes over his shoulder, the thing Merlin knows the weight of in his hands; not the stark lines of tattoos where they disappear under his sleeves and might be fun to trace.

Honestly, it’s a good thing Romani’s getting into bed anyway, or he might stare at the ice cream for way too long. Merlin plops down with his head on the pillow as Romani dims the lights to the almost-nothing underlighting at the walls. “Much better.”

Romani makes some faintly exasperated sound as he gets into bed; but he pauses before lying down, glancing over and down at Merlin, expression almost unreadable now that the lights have gone. “Are you sure this is... that is, if you’d prefer not to share a bed...”

Merlin’s thought it before, and he’ll think it again: So ethical he makes Merlin’s teeth hurt, like biting into something too sweet. “If I wanted to, I’d sleep in the closet you so thoughtfully set up,” he says. An impulse, quickly quashed, wants to reach out and drag Romani down the rest of the way. Merlin holds still. “Don’t you know by now not to give me outs? Come on, doctor.”

He blames the dimness for the little relaxing of his impulses — he didn’t quite mean to say that.

“Well...” Romani sighs gently, and slowly lets himself down, stretching out on his back first before rolling onto his side to face Merlin. “You might argue that I ensured you have no outs when I summoned you.”

“I would argue that, you’re right,” Merlin says cheerfully. All he can see of Romani is varying depths of shadow, as his eyes adjust; shadow, and the gentle stroke of light along one cheek. “Doctor. Romani. You can’t... it takes work, to make an indoor cat out of a feral. You know? Trap them first. That’s not a bad thing.” Ah, it’s a good thing Merlin had pushed himself mostly toward the wall, otherwise they’d be _much_ closer.

“I think we’ll skip the ‘neuter’ part of TNR,” Romani mutters, startling a laugh out of Merlin as he does. “Ah— no. That is, perhaps, but cats aren’t the same as people.”

“Stop,” Merlin says. It would be easy, if they continue down this trail, to push at that sense of ethics. “Whatever argument you were about to make about human rights, put it back in your head and keep it there. I don’t— I can’t—”

He doesn’t know how to say it, that even here, even having promised Romani his time, there are still things that are terrifying to look at and begin to accept. Even if he wants them. Even if the promise of waking twined around another person is heady and dangerously luring.

“I made an agreement,” Merlin says finally. He bestirs himself to pat Romani’s cheek — a mistake. “Don’t let’s go breaking it now, huh? If I want to hide, I know where all the comfortable closets and unclaimed rooms are. I’m here. Don’t worry about it.”

As Merlin’s eyes adjust, some more of the shapes of Romani’s face become clearer even in the dark. There’s a sort of wry amusement about him, in the twist of his mouth. And then, quite solemnly, he reaches out to tap Merlin once on the nose. “If you do, make sure the heat’s on. Some sections of Chaldea are depowered temporarily to conserve energy.”

It’s so all-over Romani that Merlin laughs again, snags that hand in his and drags it away from his nose. “Fine, fine. I promise you I won’t freeze to death. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Romani says dryly. “I’d hate to have to explain that to Da Vinci.”

“I think she’d laugh at the magesicle, honestly,” Merlin tells him, and squeezes his— ah, Merlin seems to have forgotten to let go of his hand. But... Romani’s not complaining, huh?

Merlin chases away a few thoughts of wild insanity like kissing his fingertips and just closes his eyes instead, signalling an end to the conversation of mild lunacy they’d been having. “Good night, Doctor.”

Romani’s returned “Good night” is soft, but — Merlin thinks — warm.

Neither of them lets go.


	10. the hanged man rusts

Once again, Merlin wakes with his face pressed into Romani’s shoulder and an arm across his chest; only this time there’s also some awkward Gordian tangle made of their legs. At first he’s not sure why he woke, and holds still, keeps his breath even enough to hopefully not betray any change. If he seems still asleep, he can probably get away with doing this a while longer.

The reason for his waking comes clear a moment later — Romani’s moving under him. Just a little; just a hand drifting ever so lightly along some part of Merlin’s hair, so gentle Merlin barely feels it himself. Oh, no, now he really _can’t_ let Romani know he’s awake and aware.

Romani might stop, then. And for once Merlin can admit, at least to himself, that the ache in his chest is looser because of that touch, that a need he barely knows exists might be touched like this.

Ah, it’s a problem.

But it’s also very nice.

“Merlin,” Romani says eventually, softly. His hand rests somewhere around Merlin’s shoulder, warm in a way that sinks through to the bones. “Merlin, I need to get up.”

Oh, was there an alarm? Maybe that’s why he woke up. Stubbornly, Merlin stays precisely still.

“ _Merlin_.”

Nope.

Romani sighs. Merlin feels him shift, and there’s a gentle tug in his hair as well as some careful squirming, during which Merlin remains as deadweight as possible. “Fine,” Romani says after some utter lack of success. “Fine, I’ll stay for a little while longer. Are you happy now?”

Weirdly, yes. Merlin heaves a contented breath and dozes back off in a warmth that’s certainly a bit more than just a matter of temperature.

When the next alarm goes off some several minutes later, Merlin startles, and the flinch betrays his awakeness; but he pretends at a yawning rousing, all slow disentangling and bemused blinking. Romani might even fall for it — Merlin’s not sure, but he isn’t called on it, so that’s the better part of the battle. “Same terms as yesterday about work,” Merlin calls after him as he heads for the ensuite.

“I hear you,” Romani says over his shoulder. Notably, this does not confirm he’ll listen.

Oh, well. One of these days Merlin will call his bluff.

And where does that leave Merlin, with this day? He supposes he could try and complete the set of knights before they catch up to him, go and harass Gawain with... something or other, but the idea doesn’t seem very fulfilling or appetizing.

Right. Cafeteria, then a more detailed tour of Chaldea’s supply closets. That’s Merlin’s plan for the day.

Petulantly, stubbornly, he refuses to seek any of the knights out. He’s had enough for one week. Gawain and the question that is Mordred can wait their turns until at _least_ next week.

Ah, but Merlin also remembers a time when he was insistent that no talking to any of them was going to happen at _all_. Or at least not for a few months...

Yeah. He’s a sucker. This was really the only thing that could happen, all told. So: he starts remodeling one of the less used closets for a more comfortable hiding place, and doesn’t look back, reasoning that if there’s any kind of emergency he’ll hear about it somehow. Chaldea has alarms like any place.

No alarms. No invaders. It’s a peaceful day. Merlin is _deeply suspicious_. He doesn’t even have to roust Romani from work; Romani comes pre-liberated that evening, delivered by a beaming Ritsuka who’s brought tangerines and hair supplies. Merlin, recognizing that he can’t get out of that really, just lets her do what she wants with his hair.

Honestly, it’s easier than keeping it maintained himself, now that he has to do things like humans.

They don’t talk of much, that night. Not with Ritsuka there, and Mash close behind her. It’s hard enough, Merlin feels, making the vague starts at honesty with _one_ person, let alone three, two of whom happen to be energetic teenaged girls. Still, if he doesn’t dissuade them from fussing over him, and doesn’t try to shoo them away, they’ll probably understand _something_.

They’re clever like that. Clever enough to see through him, sometimes, when he’s really deeply wishing they wouldn’t.

So: Merlin lets them have this.

And pretends he doesn’t notice Romani watching with some strange warmth in his face.

The next day, after disentangling himself from the sleep-induced cuddling which is quickly becoming both customary and unfortunately desirable, Merlin makes himself scarce at high speed. There’s something under his skin that wants for motion, like an itch he can’t quite scratch. Restlessness, maybe. The sense that he’s stayed still too long.

The sense that he’s definitely letting people in and it’s not going to be reversible or in any other way retrievable. Yeah. That’d itch.

Yesterday’s closet is a good choice; he vigorously rearranges the shelves some more, makes the item storage more efficient so there’s more room for him, and sprawls out on one of said shelves. It’s hard and the corner digs uncomfortably into his neck where he drapes, but stubbornness keeps him there, too. This is _comfortable_. This is _where he wants to be_. Definitely nothing about the sheer comfort he’d ousted himself from this morning.

The shelves are downright luxurious.

Until the other shoe drops. In the manner of the door being kicked in. That hadn’t even occurred to him as an option. Upside-down over the edge of the shelf Merlin frowns at the silhouette in the doorway, muscles tense despite the apparent laziness as he prepares to bolt. Who _is_ that? Armor — short —

“ _There_ you are,” says Mordred with some savage relish.

Clearly the peace yesterday was just for lulling him into a false sense of security, and this is now Merlin’s punishment for having relaxed at all.

Merlin rolls off the shelf and to his feet, drawing illusion over himself as he does, such that he’s vanished by the time he’s at a full stand. Mordred scowls at what now should appear to him to be empty air. “I know you can’t teleport, Merlin,” he says, and plants his stance squarely in the open doorway. Merlin eyes the amount of space left over, considering if he can make a vault over Mordred’s head. He’s not wearing his helm, which leaves some room, and he _really_ takes after Artoria in terms of height.

“I’ve got _all day_ ,” Mordred adds.

Well, there go Merlin’s plans. Such as they were. The only way out, he supposes, is through. He lets his illusion fall away, scowls just a little — which Mordred doesn’t appear at all impressed by. Sigh. “What do _you_ want?”

He doesn’t entirely _mean_ to sound like he’s out to pick a fight, but honestly, if he never had to talk to Mordred again, that would also be fine. Camlann hangs over them all, heavy and pressing. Merlin wonders what the attitudes are like, these days, among the knights, and the games they play to pass the time...

No he absolutely does not wonder that. He wonders what Mordred wants, that’s what he does.

“Simulator,” Mordred says, jerking a thumb back over his shoulder. His other hand rests at the crossguard of his sword, secure, not _quite_ a threat. More like a consciousness. “Let’s go, old man.”

Ah, the disrespect. Merlin would be amused by it if this was anyone else. “I’m not hearing a compelling reason,” he says. What _could_ Mordred want? The simulator is pretty much used for weird excursions and battles, and he has ... absolutely no illusions that Mordred wants to take him down to the riverside for a nice chat. Great.

“You taught my father,” Mordred explains, as if _that_ makes it all more reasonable. “And Master gets fussy about people damaging the walls.”

Actually, wait, that might be reasonable from Mordred’s point of view, Merlin genuinely doesn’t know. He wrinkles his nose. “Unless you’re planning to drop your Noble Phantasm on me, no one is going to be damaging the walls. And if you _are_ legitimately interested in swordplay, then you shouldn’t be using it here.” He has seen that laser and wants none of it in his face. “ _Also_ , I will remind you, I have been the sole occupant of a tower suite for the last several hundred years. Your father is far past my tutelage now.”

Mordred appears further unimpressed. “I’ll be honest,” he says, “I don’t really care about that. I just want to know how you taught my father. Unless you’ve forgotten even _that_.”

That’s a weird justification, if Merlin’s honest. He _does_ suppose that Mordred’s in a good position to confirm or deny what Tristan’s been saying, since he’s the one it’d most affect. He’s still not sure he exactly wants to invest in this, though, especially with a hidden motive in there. “If I say no, are you going to attack me anyway?”

A quick flash of a raw-edged grin. “Hah. No. I’m just going to make sure everyone knows exactly where you are. People want to make friends with you here, right? I’m not so stupid as to start something by force.”

Surprisingly insightful. Merlin eyes him, still thinking about it, and finding... well.

Merlin’s not stupid, either, all evidence regarding Romani to the contrary. He knows a good chunk of what was going on with Mordred could be ascribed to Morgan — Mordred himself couldn’t have blocked Merlin’s clairvoyance so neatly, so there sure was some kind of alternate involvement, even if he’s not clear on how much of the action Morgan drove. Merlin’s never going to outright _like_ Mordred, for the things that have been done and the blood that’s been shed.

But he doesn’t seem to have any significant amount of hate rattling around, either. Maybe it’s just all gone into grief.

“One condition,” Merlin finds himself saying. “If you try to sucker me into any sort of emotional conversation, I _will_ vanish immediately.”

Mordred’s grin definitely has the edge of fang in it, and Merlin has half a second to think about the passed-down _spirit of a dragon_ before Mordred says, “Deal. Get out here.”

It’s possible he’ll regret this. As Mordred steps back out of the closet, Merlin conjures his staff up with a quick application of intent. The wood-grain against his palm is a reassurance, even if he won’t be holding it long. He flips the catch on his sword, lets the hilt drop into his hand and draws it with a sigh.

“Come _on_ ,” says Mordred, tangibly impatient in the sound of metallic toe-taps.

Merlin vanishes his staff again and slopes out into the hall, absently testing the swing of the blade in his hand. If he wants to get _really_ technical, he did his fair share of this in Uruk, no matter how he tried to avoid it, so he’s not as rusty as he might have been, a year ago. Still... “You know I’m only a mage, right?” he tries half-heartedly.

A couple of meters down the hall, Mordred snorts, clearly disbelieving. He draws his own sword, dropping the sheath off to the side. “Does that work on _anyone_?”

“Sometimes,” Merlin says. He squints along the stretch of metal floor toward Mordred, closes the distance a few paces. “I don’t suppose you can be about a foot shorter, for maximum verisimilitude? Maybe two?”

“...what,” Mordred says blankly.

Merlin motions vaguely around hip level, focusing on _bothering Mordred_ and not the ache that always comes with remembering some things. “You know. About so high. My king was not particularly grown when we began these lessons.”

“ _Huh_.” There’s some kind of reassessment happening as Mordred eyes him, sidelong; and then a shrug, and the heavy blade lifts. “Anyway.”

Apparently they’re skipping footwork. That’s fine, Merlin wouldn’t have had the stomach for it anyway. He shifts the bend of light about his person just a touch as he himself moves, just for safety’s sake — and then promptly ducks Mordred’s blade. Adrenaline thrills instantly as Merlin dances aside, boots placed in precise patterns to demonstrate good form. “So _forward_ ,” he says, in the teasing tones of the unexpectedly propositioned. “My, my.”

“Oh, shove it,” Mordred snaps. Strikes again — Merlin moves again, getting the measure of him. He hadn’t really sparred with _any_ of the knights, honestly. More kept to himself. “There’s no point beating around the bush if we both know what we’re doing.”

Admirable directness, if moderately annoying. Merlin begins at observing, watching the set of Mordred’s hips and shoulders before he tracks the silver of the blade — like good sex, a great deal of good fighting starts in the hips. Evade, observe. Duck, dart, and grin like an annoying maniac.

“Get _back_ here,” Mordred complains.

“Make me,” Merlin says, forcing cheer, and continues to evade. It’s giving him great insights! Like that Mordred often relies on _brute force_. Not entirely a surprise, but he wonders who taught him at all. Surely someone had to, but he can’t see Morgan picking up a sword. And not likely one of the other knights, since Mordred came to Camelot full-grown and excelling as a knight, enough to match up to Artoria…

Weird. He’s not self-taught, is he?

Merlin sure wouldn’t like to get hit by any of those heavy swings, anyway. He moves back, back again, nearly runs into the wall for having moved too far and skitters sideways. Mordred very charitably is mindful not to ram his sword into the wall, but that same caution definitely doesn’t extend to Merlin as they round the corner.

It’s not _just_ that Merlin’s running, although he’s very good at that. He’s learning the patterns, too. Such that halfway down this hall he manages to duck-and-weave around Mordred to reverse the direction of their progress — Mordred grunts with impatience and annoyance, turns on the spot to pull his sword around his body, makes himself the pivot of a crescent moon.

That’s well done, Merlin has to admit, and leads them back the other way. Now that he can parse Mordred’s movements better, he can offend — more than spiritually, anyway. Here he scores a long line across a vambrace, more as instruction than genuine intent to harm; there he flickers a bare touch under Mordred’s guard, only just caught by the other sword and turned aside.

“ _That’s_ better,” Mordred says, with something between relish and annoyance. “What took you?”

Merlin has half a mind to just leave. Exasperation colors his breath as he moves back again. “Learning how you move.”

“What, it took you that long?” And Mordred’s next ruinous swing comes _much_ closer than it should have. Merlin lunges aside, genuinely alarmed for the space of half a second, and catches sharp-edged satisfaction on Mordred’s face. “Man, you _are_ out of practice, then.”

“I _did_ warn you,” Merlin agrees. He does have his pride, but he’ll happily throw it away if it gets him out of this. “I’m pretty useless for this sort of thing! Still want to chase me around the halls a bit?” They could get some great music going, really turn up the comedy... no. Not with Mordred.

“I’m sure thinking about it,” Mordred mutters. He braces his sword across one shoulder. The heavy sound of metal shifting against sharp edge sets something uncomfortable down Merlin’s spine.

Merlin rubs at the bridge of his nose with his free hand. He’s tired— not physically, but maybe emotionally. He’ll credit that with why he says what he does. “Look,” he says. “You’re at a different stage in your— everything.” Mordred is encompassed with a quick motion, as Merlin relaxes his sword-wrist and lets the blade dangle. “If you _genuinely_ wanted to learn from me, you’d have to unpick your whole style and start over, and that doesn’t strike me as something you have the patience for. I don’t think this is actually about learning, although I’ll offer advice on your overextensions for free because they hurt me to look at. But all told, I’m pretty sure this is about your ... father somehow, I just can’t figure out which way.”

Mordred’s grin fades pretty quick, through Merlin’s assessment, replaced by an increasingly thunderous scowl. “Hey, that thing you said about no emotion conversations or whatever? Why don’t you _stick to it_.”

“It would not be the first time in my life I’ve made mistakes,” Merlin grumbles. It’s mostly to himself, if he’s honest. He lifts his voice a moment after to address Mordred. “Answer one question for me and I’ll shut up about everything else.”

On the hilt of his sword, Mordred’s grip shifts dangerously. “Depends what.”

Merlin has absolutely no intention of touching the most dangerous bubbles in _that_ pot. “How does the king treat you?”

For that Merlin earns a suspicious look, and a change in angle of the sword across Mordred’s shoulders, but no further explicit hostility. “One of his knights,” Mordred says finally. “Nothing less. And _definitely_ nothing more.” His lip curls, but his attitude is one of ambivalence.

The child of King Arthur. Merlin bites back a sigh. He doubts, under these conditions, that there would be a strict repetition of pattern, but it’s still... not ideal. His fingers itch to meddle, no matter how foolish it is.

“Great,” Merlin says finally, unconvincingly, and, “Thanks.” That one burns a bit. “You can chase me around a different hallway next time.”

Mordred snorts, unshoulders his blade. It’s a broad thing, though he one-hands it easily, and the inlay catches light, draws Merlin’s eye for the moment before he sheathes it. “Maybe try harder next time,” he says.

The implication that Mordred agrees there will be a next time puzzles Merlin, since he’d said that pretty much just to be annoying, and he wasn’t under the impression that Mordred was actually getting anything useful or fun out of this exchange. “You say that like you actually plan to show up again,” Merlin says.

Whatever reply Mordred was about to make dies before it makes it to the air; his gaze shifts past Merlin instead, over his shoulder. “Ah, fuck,” he says conversationally.

...that bodes _horrendously_ for what Merlin’s going to see when he turns around. Well aware of the doom he may imminently face, Merlin turns slowly on the spot, sword dangling loose in his fingers.

There’s Romani, who looks both regal and unamused. Unfortunately he has company; at his shoulder is a slighter figure in blue cloth and silver armor.

Merlin makes the awful mistake of meeting her eyes.

For a moment the world spins; there is not Chaldea’s chill metal but rain and fresh-spring air, the stone of Camelot and the promise of the future. “Merlin,” she says, brow knit with some faint frown. “You—”

His blade finally falls from his numb hand, and the clatter of it overwrites his king’s words, breaks whatever foolish spell had caught him stock-still. Something in his chest stabs sharply — Merlin glances down half-expecting some wound, finds nothing. Nothing at all. Only grief.

Illusion wraps around him with the force of panic, so overpowered that even Merlin’s perceptions skew. He turns on his heel and bolts, vaults the attempt Mordred makes at tripping him without even considering staying. Shame cuts through him even as he does it, but Merlin wouldn’t know how to turn around if he wanted to.

This whole thing was a mistake. Merlin runs from everything, and doesn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to be super clear on something from the out, with Mordred -- we subscribe pretty whole-heartedly to the Mordred as trans man theory, so that's how we'll be writing him going forward. However, not everyone in Chaldea is already on this train -- and frankly, Mordred himself is still working it out at this point, among the flux of other identity issues re: son of the king, knight of the Round, etc. While I don't want to make a huge deal of it, and ultimately this isn't Mordred's story, it's still important to me to make clear where Mordred _does_ come up that we're going to be as respectful as we know how to be. Character points of view and the limitations of knowledge are still a thing, but no one's going to be intentionally extra shitty about it, and we'll let you know if anything out of the ordinary comes up.


	11. lost in the cosmos lonely

Merlin finds himself back in Romani’s room before he’s made the conscious decision to go that way, before he’s realized that somehow, accursedly, he has distinctly positive associations with that space. Still, there’s a comfortable closet made up for him here, something he can hide in with more success, and all judgment on that particular coping method forestalled for now.

Romani won’t expect him to come back here, Merlin tells himself, he’ll probably expect some other area of Chaldea. Somewhere Romani would assume Merlin would think Romani wouldn’t look. And just in case, hiding in the closet means no one will see him from the door, which means Romani’s room may get passed over if anyone just looks in the door and moves on. It’s the closest thing to perfect he’s going to get.

Now comfortably alone, Merlin takes a few minutes to figure out what the fuck _that_ was.

If he’s honest with himself...

Right. Hah. Honest with himself. Like that happens frequently.

Even so, he’s been existing at least nominally around the Knights of the Round in small quantities. He’d been working his way up to the concept that he might at one point be in the same room with Artoria and everyone might be, if not happy, then at least contented with that. From the beginning, after all, as soon as he’d been firmly trapped within Chaldea’s walls, Merlin had been pretty sure that would be unavoidable.

So why this? Even for expected pain, it was...

Incapacitating.

Distantly, out in the main room, Merlin hears the door slide open, and at least two voices. He goes still and quiet — stiller and quieter, he supposes — but it’s not all very long before the voices stop, and there’s the same sound of the door. A quick clairvoyant peek into the main room reveals that no one’s stayed.

He relaxes, and is simultaneously appalled that some treacherous part of him is disappointed. What is being here _doing_ to him? Also, talk about awful passive aggression, running just to hope someone follows. He ought to smack his own knuckles for that one.

All things considered, though, he’s now reasonably sure that he will go un-found for the immediate future. Merlin leans against the wall and lets his thoughts go distant, wondering and wandering. Maybe... maybe it’s just that he was surprised. And that when he’s _not_ startled and off his guard, he’ll be perfectly capable of handling whatever that was.

Ugh, this is why he’s been avoiding that kind of thing in the first place. Stupid.

Time passes like that. Merlin makes no progress with himself, resigns himself mostly to inhabiting the aftershocks of — grief. He guesses that was grief, even if he’s not crying over it; he’s not sure what else it _would_ be. Only that he can’t stomach the thought of facing anyone at all right now, and perhaps not for some time, because he’ll have to be cheerful or they’ll start being worried and earnest at him. And that Merlin really _can’t_ cope with.

There’s some point at which Romani comes back to the room, but there aren’t any accompanying voices. Merlin supervises with half an eye, lazily directed that way, but even ousting Romani from overwork doesn’t seem very doable. Anyway, Romani’s... not working, which is genuinely weird. There’s tea, though, which he doesn’t let go cold, and an orange peeled by deft hands.

Fine. Good. Merlin glances away again, and, not to put too fine a point on it, mopes.

That laziness about supervision is why he jumps when Romani taps on the closet door. _Shit_. Immediately Merlin holds his breath, as if _that_ will be the tell that gives him away.

“Merlin,” Romani says, with some wry gentleness. “I’m pretty sure you’re here.”

Pretty sure is not completely sure. Merlin makes a face at the closet door, but doesn’t answer.

He’s expecting an invasion. Or... something. An effort to make him come out or talk. Romani just brings his tea over and sits down against the closet door, calm and purposeful. “I’m going to feel very silly if you’re not _actually_ there,” Romani mutters, more or less to himself. “But at this point, there’s not many other places you _would_ be, and the feel of your magic...”

Romani lapses into silence there, sits contemplative staring off into the distance.

Very, very carefully, Merlin adjusts his own seat in the closet so it’s on the side nearer to Romani. He doesn’t examine his own motives at all, he just does it. Maybe he’ll appear in Romani’s bed in the middle of the night or something. That seems like a logical and sane thing to do.

“I _am_ sorry about springing her on you like that,” Romani says eventually, leaning back against the door. “Da Vinci warned me that she’d seen Mordred looking... intent on the CCTV. Artoria happened to be nearby at the time, and of all the people to handle a situation like that...”

Merlin’s been slipping enough that Da Vinci can track him on the cameras, is what he takes away from that. Which is both annoying on her part as well as commentary on how alarmingly comfortable Merlin had been getting. At least she hasn’t been using that power for evil. Yet.

Romani wasn’t wrong, either. The way things are now, that king would be best suited to either disrupt or redirect Mordred’s attention. Merlin rubs at his eyes with one hand, wishing they’d stop stinging. Ah, but now she _knows_ he’s been avoiding her...

And now he’s worried about what she will think of him. As if he hadn’t been already. As if this could get _worse_.

“Merlin, you’re... not nearly as okay as you pretend you are, are you?” Romani wonders aloud.

“ _Rude_ ,” Merlin says before he can stop himself.

There is a tiny, half-choked-off chuckle from Romani as he tilts his head back. “Calling you out on that is rude?”

Well, he’s rumbled _now_. Merlin sighs. “Yes,” he says. “You’re _supposed_ to let me suffer in silence, come on.”

“Uh-uh.” Romani shakes his head. “I’m a doctor, remember? I was born to be a king; but I chose to be a doctor. Your problems might be difficult to fix, but... that doesn’t mean it’s good for you to keep your pain hidden away.”

“You’re one to talk,” Merlin grumbles.

Apparently it’s loud enough to be heard through the door, since Merlin can see that it makes Romani flinch, and he very nearly regrets it. But Romani exhales softly, and closes his eyes, and then he just... smiles that awful, kind smile. “But, Merlin,” he says. “I didn’t. Not entirely. Remember? ...I had you.”

So he did.

Merlin doesn’t know how to argue with that. He braces his palm on the closet door — thinks about it for half a second, then doesn’t think about it at all, and slides the door open.

Romani, clearly not expecting this, falls backward with the sudden loss of his support, sprawls against Merlin in a sudden wash of heat and too-loud heartbeats. He blinks up at Merlin, owlish, hands upraised in a last-ditch bid to save his tea.

It’s _horrifically_ cute. Merlin hates that it is. Wordlessly, he takes Romani’s half-empty mug.

“Ah,” Romani says, floundering. “Do you... want some?”

Out of spite, Merlin takes a sip before shaking his head. “You’d have spilt it getting up,” he says.

This earns him a mildly disapproving frown. With his hands thus freed, though, Romani pushes himself back up to a stable sitting position, and Merlin pretends that he doesn’t feel the loss of even that momentary warmth very keenly. He presses the mug back into Romani’s grasp then, and edges further into the closet.

Romani opens his mouth. Closes it. Watches Merlin closely, all sharp and too-discerning. “...may I come in?” he asks finally.

He has correctly judged that Merlin will not want to emerge. Even Romani’s room, limited as its scope is, seems somehow too vast right now. Merlin can hardly even make himself say the word _yes_ , settles for nodding and scooting aside to allow enough room for one person next to him.

Awkwardly, gingerly, Romani crawls into the offered space, tucks his legs up under him and settles. “I’m glad you’ve found this useful,” he says, setting the mug carefully where his knee won’t knock it. “I wasn’t sure...”

“It’s cozy,” Merlin says. He means it to be all dry sarcasm, but it comes out of his mouth terribly sincere. “Don’t worry, I’m sure it’s not a healthy coping mechanism.”

“I really don’t know how to take that,” Romani mutters, rubbing at the space between his brows with one knuckle. “I know you probably don’t want to talk about it, but... listening is the least I can offer, right? And I understand — at least a little — about losing a child...” He trails off there, probably something to do with how his voice had gotten thick over the words.

It’s sweet and sincere, and Merlin is increasingly unsure about how this man is actually real. “It’s not like she _was_ ,” he says abruptly. Barely even meaning to, except that somehow in the relative safety of the closet, with the man who gave him the place to hide, it seems a little easier. “I gave her to Ector to foster when it was clear Uther wasn’t going to survive the Saxons. Can’t have an heir just raised by whoever, you know? Ector was a good man. So was Kay, for that matter.”

“You say that like you had no hand at all,” Romani says, promptingly.

Merlin shrugs, half-hearted. “Not when she was small, for sure. Infants, you know? They’re like... beans. Cute, but not a lot of independence. I dropped by to look in on the lot of them every so often, but just to make sure things were going fine. Ector didn’t know who she was, so the only reason he had to take care of her was my say-so — it was just sensible to remind him of my presence every so often.”

“You _just_ said he was a good man.” Romani’s mouth twitches.

“Even good men may rearrange their priorities,” Merlin says soberly. He laces his fingers together, stares at the pattern. “So I looked in on them. All right, yes, I taught her the basics of the sword, maybe some other things, but she was going to need to learn most of those at some point anyway. I just gave her a head start.”

“You dropped in enough that you weren’t strangers to each other, when you began traveling together.”

That sounds like more than Romani should know, strictly speaking, and Merlin glances over at him with brows raised, to which Romani responds with a rueful smile. “I’ve done a bit of reading and a bit of talking,” he says. “I know at least that you traveled with her for a little while before she took the throne. Right?”

“...Yeah.” Merlin sighs, resigned. One of the blessings of what’s called Arthuriana these days is that there are so _many_ stories, constantly imagined and reimagined, that those who try to know them from it will have some trouble telling what’s real. But, as noted, Romani has primary sources. Sources he seems to be able to cadge into talking. “She was fifteen when she drew Caliburn from the stone. Now _some_ people can manage kingship at that age—”

“—hey,” Romani says, as that sinks in.

“—but she’d been squiring for Kay and raised as a _child_ , not as a king,” Merlin says. “She needed time and a reputation. So I made sure she had those.”

“That was good of you,” Romani says softly.

“It really wasn’t.” Merlin can’t help his bitterness. “Drawing the sword sealed her fate. From that moment, I knew where she would die.” Ah, his throat hurts. Merlin clears it with some effort. “The only thing I slowed was her crowning, if I slowed anything at all. You know how it is. You know you have twenty years, and you think, oh, that’s a lot of years, it’s not like that’s tomorrow or anything, you still have time...”

“And then you don’t.” Romani’s voice is rich with dangerous sympathy. “One day, you wake up, and there aren’t any days left.”

“Yes.” Even that one word scrapes terribly raw, as much as Merlin appreciates that Romani’s been able to fill some things in for him. “Ten years traveling, ten years ruling, and that was all there was. And when I realized what time it was... I left.” He draws his knees up to his chest, uncaring for the moment about how it will appear. “The mess with Lancelot had mostly already happened. I just had to poke Viviane a little.” Okay, there had been a few low blows exchanged, but Viviane had loved her son well, and for his sake loved those he loved. It really hadn’t been hard to get her to bite him. So to speak.

“I Saw what would become of Israel,” Romani offers. “At least in part. What would become of all I had built, and of my people...”

“Lancelot mentioned.” Merlin’s guessing that’s what Romani’s getting at, anyway. “You weren’t totally wrong, I guess. You told him I might have seen something that needed to happen, right?”

“Yes.” Soft, death-knell agreement in awful commiseration, for they who have seen their countries prosper and fall.

“Mm.” Merlin shakes his head, rests his chin on his knees. “I don’t have _visions_ very often. They’re important, when I do. So I could have guessed it was necessary, for whatever reason. But that’s not...” His voice cuts out again. Merlin takes a few deep breaths, painfully grateful that Romani says nothing, even as he would appreciate any interruption to save him from himself here. “Romani. From the moment I left the Sword of Selection where she could get at it, she was doomed to that fate, and I didn’t _try_ to change anything about that. I didn’t leave for Britain’s greater good, I left because I couldn’t make those choices and couldn’t face failure. That’s the sort of person you’re trying to _get to know_ , here. Okay? Don’t give me credit where it isn’t due.”

Romani does move then, and Merlin’s half-convinced he’s going to get up; but all that happens is Romani scoots closer, hip-to-hip, and puts his arm over Merlin’s shoulders, as gently as if he thinks Merlin might be made of spun sugar. “What would you have done if you _hadn’t_ known?” Romani asks. His tone is still as gentle as if he’s speaking to some feral, frightened beast he’s trying to coax in from the storm. “Just… remove your visions from the equation for a moment. Think about it.”

Merlin’s tired enough in his spirit to follow the suggestion. Fine, then. If he hadn’t known about the end. Had known, say, only that he had Uther’s heir. Not known anything of death or failure or dragons. Ector was still a good choice for fostering, but Merlin might have hung around more. Caliburn would have happened either way — that had been set in motion around the same time Uther died, and it had only been a matter of time until Artoria drew it — but if there had been nothing to show her?

He’d given her the choice even when he shouldn’t have, so of course she’d have the option to step away, to not draw it and never become king, in this version of events too. The only thing Merlin can possibly think is that if he hadn’t known losses were coming, he might have kept less aloof. He doesn’t know how to say that aloud.

And if he hadn’t known how Camlann would end...

Oh, he would have been there, wouldn’t he. Too stupid to know it was a doomed proposition from the start, and a Merlin who hadn’t been even a little bit reserved would never have been able to leave. He really _would_ have been one of them.

He’d have tried. Being too blind to know all was meant to fail meant Merlin would have fought, possibly even _done his best_. Maybe died, maybe survived. And then what? Even in this imagining he can’t predict if it would have turned tides, and what would become of the future then. All he knows is he envies that Merlin, this half-born thought experiment, the one who stayed. Merlin’s mouth trembles from its set, and to his horror he finds his cheeks are wet. When had _that_ started happening?

“Ah—” Romani’s hold on his shoulders tightens. “Merlin—”

Obstinate, Merlin buries his face against his knees, as much to absorb the wetness as to hide; but he leans against Romani, since that warm weight apparently isn’t going anywhere.

Romani clearly doesn’t know what to do with this. Eventually he starts petting Merlin’s hair, which somehow _does_ help, even though it really shouldn’t. “I’m sorry,” Romani says at length. He doesn’t specify what for.

Blindly Merlin lifts a hand and gropes around until he finds Romani’s hair in turn, at which point he tugs lightly before subsiding. He doesn’t let go, though.

“...oh,” Romani says, and, “Okay.”

So that’s fine.

Merlin definitely has his existential crisis under control within the hour, though maybe stays where he is longer than strictly necessary, just to appreciate Romani’s warmth. Also, when he lifts his head he’s pretty sure his face has gone awful and blotchy. He rubs his sleeve across his eyes a few times, aware of Romani’s worried regard and mostly ignoring it. “Anyway,” Merlin says finally. “Good talk. Your tea’s cold.”

“ _Merlin_.” Romani’s mouth goes all concerned-disapproving again, visible distinctly from the corner of Merlin’s eye.

“Unless you don’t want your tea any more,” Merlin tries. Anything to move on from the previous slant of conversation. Please. He knows... something is looser, inside him, but he can’t do anything with it. Not yet.

Romani watches him for an uncomfortably long time before conceding. “...it’s fine cold.”

“That’s all right, then,” Merlin says. He unfolds himself to step past Romani, out of the closet. Romani’s room seems— still too bright and too large, somehow, but better than his imagining of it had been. “I probably need a shower.”

“Okay,” Romani says again. “I’ll... be here. Take, um. Take as long as you need? I’ll make sure we don’t have any surprise guests.”

Being treated like he’s fragile should sting, but mostly Merlin just finds he’s grateful.

He stands in the shower, thinking of nothing in particular — thinking of trying not to think of things — until the water runs cold and he has some vague notion to be apologetic for the drain on Chaldea’s resources, but then again he was looking at some of the generators just the other day anyway. He can shore them up if there’s really a problem.

When the cold gets too oppressive Merlin changes his tactic to standing in the middle of the bathroom and dripping unhelpfully on the floor, but— somewhere in the interim flannel pajamas have appeared just inside the door. That drives motion finally, the simple necessities of towels and a quick blow-dry to make his hair slightly less of a soaking rope. _Then_ the soft flannels.

The mirror unfogs enough through this process that Merlin might regard himself and contemplate. He catches a glimpse of himself sidelong — pale, a little drawn, a face that looks like he’s forgotten how to smile — and rolls his eyes at himself once, then forces his feet out the door, back to the room where Romani is.

Not that Merlin knows what he’s going to do about that problem, either. But: if nothing else, Romani is warm.

More troublingly, Romani is sitting at his laptop when Merlin does emerge. “Hey,” Merlin starts, half on reflex. Sure, work might be a reasonable distraction, and okay, probably if Romani had to come after him then he didn’t finish whatever tasks he had today, but he’s pretty sure whatever weepy nonsense he just had should be good for Mr Overwork _putting it down_.

Romani starts, looks up guiltily. “It’s not work,” he says. “I’m just reading a bit. Most of the books here are digital, you know.”

“Uh-huh.” Well aware he doesn’t cut an imposing figure in these pajamas, Merlin nevertheless draws himself up and twirls a finger, indicating the laptop. This, at least, is a familiar pattern.

With a huff Romani actually turns his laptop around. It isn’t work, shockingly; nor is it the plain text he’d expect of a book. What Merlin _sees_ is his very own website, all sparkles and stars. “Happy now?”

“Maybe I should let you and Mari have some privacy.” Merlin’s teasing. He sits down anyway, scooting up under the kotatsu. “Is it too early to pass out? I have to admit, I have no idea what time it is.”

“And here I thought you said you didn’t feel the need for sleep,” Romani murmurs, mouth curved with amusement. “It’s gone on six or so in the evening, local time. A bit early.”

“Sleep is incredibly convenient for avoiding things,” Merlin informs him. This nets a sigh, but no other reprimand. “Anyway, I’ve got nothing else to do except read your books, and they’re all the way over _there_.”

Thoughtful, Romani sits back from his laptop, clearly making some considerations in the quiet space of thinking. “I have videos saved, too,” he says at length. “I could put something on — that way you’re assured I’m not working, and you also have an excuse to not talk.”

Merlin would be more annoyed about being so clearly perceived if he had not _just_ told Romani he wanted an excuse to not talk, if not in as many words. “Sure,” he says with a shrug, and scoots around the corner of the table to re-establish his bastion of warmth where he’s not-quite touching Romani, and they’ll both be able to see the laptop screen.

He _isn’t_ expecting soap operas. The really hilariously over-the-top kind, with an evil twin within the first five minutes. Even joining a program already in progress, it’s a bit much on the cliché side. “Don’t start,” Romani mutters, when Merlin turns toward him with the intent to say something about it.

Hearing the defensiveness, Merlin doesn’t start. At least for a few minutes. “It’s just not what I expected,” he says delicately.

“What _would_ you have expected?” Romani wants to know, eyes cutting sidelong at him.

...he has Merlin there. “Magical girl anime?” Merlin tries.

“Huh,” Romani says, and, “Maybe. This is— from when I was just incarnated. It was an adjustment, to say the least. And I was in England by the time I got the opportunity to start processing and ... well. Understanding all the things I was feeling. These helped.”

This is getting _dangerously_ close to emotional conversation again, so Merlin doesn’t answer, just subsides and observes. And maybe gets a tiny bit invested in the opera singer’s love triangle despite himself.

Romani’s shoulder against his happens eventually. Merlin doesn’t question this, either, just takes what he can get.

The rest of the evening passes more or less like that, in reasonable quiet with brief periods of humor. Merlin remembers to coax Romani into bed somewhere past ten, and defiantly tucks himself up against the wall in bed instead of retreating to the closet. Anyway, the room feels smaller with the light off, and Merlin’s finding more and more that not only is he getting used to having someone there, it’s an actively pleasant thing.

If he doesn’t mention that to Romani, he doesn’t have to know about it, right? Right.

Sleep takes its time coming, though, and Merlin is still staring vaguely at Romani’s cheekbone and fluttering eyelashes at least an hour later. “Still awake?” Merlin murmurs at him, somewhere between idle whim and genuine hope.

“Mmhm.” Romani’s mouth quirks, though his eyes don’t open. “What is it?”

A bad decision, that’s what it is. “You were in Jerusalem,” Merlin says. “Right? There were people you’d... known. How did you... manage that?”

“Ah.” Romani sounds knowing. Perhaps resigned. “I did and I didn’t. I thought I wasn’t making it out of Jerusalem alive, remember? But you... you’ve been bearing the weight of immortality for centuries.”

Merlin doesn’t say anything. He can’t — Romani’s words have knocked the breath right out of him, and he struggles to get hold of himself, let alone inhale enough for reasonable words.

“That is...” Romani’s brow knits, just visible in the dim. “I was content, at first, thinking I would at least die among those I had known and loved in both lives. Then...” He laughs, a little sheepishly. “Ah, there was more than a bit of crying, when I could get away with it without scaring people. My mother...”

He doesn’t finish his thought. Merlin doesn’t prod him for it, either.

“I don’t know,” Romani says finally, helplessly. “I wish I _did_ have wisdom to offer you. I took what joy I could — I grieved them again, afterward. I still...” He tugs a corner of the covers up to blot his eyes. “It still hits me again, sometimes. Less than it was before. The only way out of it is through, miserable as it might be. Does it help if I say it’s okay to _not_ be okay?”

“Not really,” Merlin mutters. Then again, given that his strategy about — things like that — is to aggressively steer away from feeling them as much as possible, maybe it does. He can’t say he’s fond of the concept of emotional pain, much less allowing someone else to know he experiences it.

“I see.” A pause. “...well. It _is_. Just so you know.”

Merlin really can’t help the tiny laugh that gets out of him, though he can at least promptly pretend he didn’t do it. “I don’t know how to _not_ remember,” he admits, made bold in the dark. “That they’ve all... already died. That one day none of this will be here at all, and I still will be. It’s...” His throat closes; with effort Merlin clears it. “It’s all I _can_ see, most of the time.”

There’s some scuffling in the midst of blankets, and Merlin isn’t clear on why — it’s a surprise, though not an unwelcome one, when Romani scavenges up his hand to clasp. “So you’ve said,” he says, with a remarkable clarity and compassion. “That all stories end; that one day you wake up and all of the time that stretched out before you is already gone. But I say to you, Merlin, that even tragedy must give you time to love; and even though the years pass by quickly, each day of them still means something precious, even if such meanings may only be seen looking back. Grief may be the price we pay for joy, but even still: _there is joy_. If there can only be these days, then for — for goodness’s sake, _take them_ , and let them mean something. To those you will lose, as well as you.”

...ah, his face is wet again, isn’t it? And his eyes _ache_. Merlin tucks his head down as if to hide among the blankets in earnest. Romani paints a beautiful picture, truly he does. King Solomon was a poet, after all. And Merlin wants...

Nothing can be what it was. That doesn’t mean there can be nothing, after all.

It’s just...

Merlin closes his eyes and says, to himself, aloud, “...I’m afraid.” Immediately after he wishes he hadn’t said it — now that it’s been _voiced_ he’ll have to acknowledge it.

“ _So was I_ ,” Romani says, with feeling; and then his arms are around Merlin, and Merlin is intimately aware of how doomed he is.

Ah, but, but: being doomed feels very warm, and his chest doesn’t ache at all where that spiteful flower had set roots in. Merlin buries his face in Romani’s pajamas, and tentatively, intentionally, resigns himself to his fate.


	12. o my loves raise a glass

Merlin’s the first to rise in the morning; he finds himself alert with a surprising clarity of purpose, regretting only that he has to unwind himself from Romani’s arms. It’s a turnabout from Merlin’s previous obstructionary roles in the wakeup process, since this time it’s Romani, sleepy, who makes annoyed noises about Merlin leaving.

Probably just missing the warmth, Merlin tells himself, and draws the covers up more securely in the place where he is not. He doesn’t look at the underpinnings of that reasoning too closely.

He dresses in his robes rather than stealing Romani’s clothes, coaxes some lingering flowers to keep his hair back just a touch. Only now does he notice the pajamas he was given last night had little smiling cakes on them, and that Merlin has to smile in turn about, despite the business he’s about.

Notably, Merlin doesn’t think about where he’s going, nor what he means to do or say when he gets there. If he does, he won’t follow through.

There are no illusions on him when he makes his way into the cafeteria, and he’s painfully aware that anyone who turns to look at motion and light may see him. Several people do. Merlin ignores most of them, heading instead for a table where several Servants of the same mythic origin have gathered.

His heart tries to stab at him. Absently Merlin presses his palm to his chest, meaning to sate the ache of it that way, and he does not falter. One familiar face turns his way, then another, and as Merlin closes in on the dangerously social range, a slight figure in blue stands and turns as well, looking at him expectantly.

Light-headed with a hundred things he doesn’t know how to name, Merlin drops to one knee at her feet. That it means he doesn’t need to look at her face for now is a hidden blessing. “My king,” he says. He hears himself only distantly, as if someone else is talking who just happens to share a voice like his.

“Merlin,” she says, only the barest note of surprise in her voice. There’s a sort of stillness around them — possibly around the whole cafeteria, actually, which was a miscalculation — and then she reaches down, tilts his face up with a knuckle under his chin. Not ungentle, just presumptuous in the way kings have. “There you are. I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”

“I was,” he admits, which they both know anyway. He’s finding it hard to look at her, even so directed by his king; his eyes flit this way and that, finally settle on the minuscule rebellion of her hair. “We should probably talk about that, huh.”

“We should.” It’s not an agreement so much as it’s an _order_ , and— honestly, that takes some of the difficulty out of it just like that. Merlin’s well and trapped now, and within that trap he can paradoxically breathe more easily. His king lets go of his chin, turns aside to say something to Gawain that Merlin honestly doesn’t catch.

Merlin doesn’t get up initially. He’s not sure he remembers how to at this point in time, and doesn’t want to flub it. Except that when his king steps around Merlin, she says “Come with me,” and at that point Merlin has no choice except to stand and follow.

Somehow he nails the getting upright part with no wobbling. Gold star.

Following his king is — terrible. Also, perfect. After all this time, he still knows the precise length of her stride, and how much laziness in his gait he can get away with to stay only barely behind her shoulder. It’s unfair, that these times were so long ago and still left such marks on him that even fifteen hundred years later some things are written in his body.

His king takes him to the living quarters that have been set aside for Servants. One of the doors opens to her touch; Merlin’s not really surprised to see it’s only minimally furnished. Servants can hardly bring much with them, after all, and Chaldea had something of a supply shortage for several months, there. Honestly, it feels just like any other room.

Might be better. Might be worse. He’s not sure yet. The fact she’s locking the door sort of points to worse, probably. Merlin stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, not moving for any of the furniture, just sort of... existing and hoping she’ll say something by way of indicating what sort of conversation this is going to be.

Of all the things, though...

“You look unhurt,” his king says, glancing him over, and then there’s a soft, half-amused sigh. “I suppose I should have known better than to think Mordred would land a blow on you.”

Merlin opts to take that as a judgment of Mordred’s skills. “Nope, no injuries here,” he says, spreading his arms wide as if to demonstrate. Even if he _did_ have anything hidden under his robes, a broad gesture would pull at a wound. If there was one. Which there isn’t.

His king appears satisfied. At least with that. She takes the sword from her hip and hangs it carefully on the hook beside the door, turning her back on Merlin briefly to do so. Merlin takes the opportunity to think very hard about the vents again. He’d never be able to scale the wall and undo the bolts in that period of time.

Good to know he has no escape route.

When she turns again, it doesn’t seem like she knows what to say to him. A mutual feeling. Merlin shuffles his feet, sheepish, and then catches it, makes himself stand still before his fidgeting can give _too_ much more away.

Artoria’s mouth twitches. Merlin chews on his lip. He’s a head taller than her — still, again — and she by a vast mile makes him feel small.

“Merlin,” she says finally. Shakes her head. “...Why?”

Oh, mean. What a way to get him to incriminate himself. Merlin would be injured if it were not this time, this place, with this person. “That’s too many questions at once,” he tells her. And then sighs at himself even as she gives him a mildly stern look by way of clarification.

Yes. The _why_ which Merlin thinks most needs to be answered, is the why she wants to know. And in any case, he supposes, it’s all much the same. “I have no excuse,” he says finally. Damning and freeing at once, somehow. “I left, and have been avoiding you even after being called here. Fear or— anything else— isn’t sufficient justification for abandoning my duties.”

“I am well aware,” she says. “But it’s my position to judge, and so I want to hear what you have to say for yourself. In full.”

She _has_ to be aware, she has to, of how much Merlin does not want to do that. Vaguely Merlin wonders who she’s been talking to — if she’s queried the other knights, who had nearly to a one said that while they would not _volunteer_ information, they would not lie either, if asked...

Hmm. This could be exceptionally awkward, actually.

“Forgive my bluntness, my king,” Merlin says finally, sweeping a bow to her. “But you’re dead. And I find that exceptionally... difficult.” Even like this, even after the late kind night of the day before and all of Romani’s softness, that’s just about the best Merlin can do to her face. “Especially as Chaldea will not persist in this same state forever.”

“Am I no longer your king, then, Merlin?” she muses, gaze downcast in thought. “If you had wished to quit my service—”

Not that, never that. Not once in all his imprisonment, Merlin realizes, as his gut wrenches with some sudden emotion. “Never,” he says hollowly. “No.”

“I see.” She pauses. Perhaps to make sure she has Merlin’s attention, or perhaps only herself still thinking over the matters before them. “I remember that you showed me the future,” she says at length. In her own time. “Before the Sword of Selection. And that you offered me the choice. The hand in my future. Were you lying to me then?”

Caught off-guard, Merlin closes his mouth and just blinks at her. That, as a question, doesn’t make any sense at _all_. They are both well aware that the future he warned her of came to pass, just as he said. Clearly that part wasn’t a lie. Then... the choice itself, is what she’s asking about...?

“No,” he says. “You could have walked away. But—”

But he put the sword there in the first place; he knew that the child he had (sort-of) overseen was not the sort to turn away; he started the whole train of events by putting his hand in and ensuring the child would exist in the first place; he hadn’t honestly _tried_ to avert anything, only let what would happen, happen. But, but. A hundred times but.

Artoria holds up her hand, and Merlin stops talking. “You have always been my teacher and advisor,” she says to him. Her voice is quite a reach short of gentle. “But never regent. Do not presume to take up my choices for your own, Merlin. Whatever knowledge you should have given me, whatever battles you could have fought, those are yours to keep. Could you have changed things? Once I took up the sword?”

Even though the requirement of an answer is indicated, Merlin takes a miserable several seconds to find where he put his voice. “...I don’t know,” he manages, heavy, leaden. Having admitted to this before does not make it much easier to say again. “It’s... unlikely. But I didn’t try.”

“You are not the only prophet to treat visions such,” she says, nodding — perhaps as if this was the answer she expected. All the same, her expression remains untelling of her final conclusion, if she’s even reached one. “Nor am I surprised to have reached the end you warned me of. If I were only a girl, my younger self, I might have felt...” The very faintest knit of her brow. “Betrayed, perhaps; though not by the breaking of promises, only the absence of someone...”

She trails off there, doesn’t finish, ultimately shakes her head. “But I was not, and am not, so it is immaterial. I made each choice that took me to Camlann in your company, but not at your behest, and it is foolishness to blame yourself, and arrogance to take the credit.”

“Ah, you can say that,” Merlin murmurs, half to himself. “But it’s another thing to convince the heart.”

“Merlin.” A note of sternness.

Merlin half-smiles despite himself. “I regret much,” he tells her, simple, as open as he can be. That she brought up her younger self at all — Merlin rather thinks it is the only way the king has open to say that she _had_ felt that way. That, perhaps, his presence had been looked-for, and his absence felt.

It hurts, but Merlin deserves that. He can’t stop himself pressing a hand over his aching heart as he goes on. “For what I didn’t do— I _am_ sorry. But that doesn’t change much, and we are in the same place no matter what I say. So— I shall try to follow that directive, my king. As ever. Though there’s no return to what was, I have been reminded — rather forcefully, by multiple people — that here and now is more than only an ending.”

“Good.” It’s a brisk judgment. “And what of your current allegiances? The doctor...?” This is a more tentative question; Artoria tilts her head to regard Merlin, some curiosity evident where before she had been blank. “I understand he is the one who summoned you.”

Oh, a deeply awkward question. Merlin runs a hand back through the unbound part of his hair, scratches at his temple. “He’s not the boss of me,” is what he goes with finally. “Though I guess you could say we’re courting, now?” That sounds so very strange when put into open words. Merlin grimaces. “On purpose,” he adds. No, that doesn’t help. “Slowly. Ah... you’re the only king I have or will ever have, but Romani is a different sort of thing entirely.”

“Not in the manner of your usual liaisons, then.” Artoria finally relaxes from the rigid stance she’d had, motions to one of the few chairs in the room. There are enough for all of the knights, Merlin notes, and loosely arrayed in... not _quite_ a circle, but certainly the implication of one.

Also a little weird, being reminded of his habits more than a thousand years ago. “Not in the least,” Merlin agrees, ignores all the implications of what he just said, and plonks down in one of the chairs, straddling the back instead of sitting properly. Ohhh, no, that was a bad idea, some old instinct yells about being seated when the king isn’t — but then she sits down nearby, more properly than Merlin. Better. “He’s a good man. Kind.” Though he might wish for fewer pointed looks and probing questions. “Anyway, enough about me, how _have_ things... been?”

“Somehow, I thought you would have been watching,” Artoria muses. Everyone assumes that. She folds her hands together, automatically regal even when she has indicated for informality. “Things are... fine. I can hardly complain. Even lessened, there is a piece of Camelot here, for which I cannot help but be grateful.”

Merlin spares her the response about his cowardice regarding supervising the state of affairs here. He folds his arms on the back of the chair, rests his chin on top of that. “Tristan and Gawain, Bedivere and Lancelot. And Mordred,” he says, musingly, and doesn’t think he’s imagining the faint sigh at the last name. “A small list, but enough for a circle. It’s strange, the group who chance drew from the Throne, isn’t it? Every one of them in some way fraught.”

 _Now_ he gets a reprimanding look. “Say straight what you mean, Merlin.”

It takes effort to bite back a joke about straightness. “Have you spoken with... any of them?” Merlin asks. He reasons that he gets to ask this because he, who is infamously allergic to emotion and has held himself aloof for years, has somehow had to do the same thing. “About, you know. Things that might have been unsaid when everyone was. ... Alive.”

The casual division between life and death gets easier to mention every time. Merlin isn’t sure he likes it.

“What is there to say?” Artoria wants to know. She turns her gaze away from him, fixes it on the opposite wall. Perhaps through. “Each of them returned to my side, when the chance was offered. That says enough. More than words could. To drag such things up now...”

“As we have?” Merlin says lightly.

She shakes her head. “I knew your face before I could walk or hold a sword. It isn’t the same. If Lancelot and Mordred wish to fight as my knights once more, that is the only loyalty I have ever required of them.”

The parts about adultery and patricide go unsaid. Merlin opts not to bring those out into the air, either. Perhaps Artoria learned more from him than he meant to teach her.

“I’m only saying,” he says. “There are things we all know, now, that can’t be un-known. Now is not then, and things are different.” How many different people has he said this to, the last week; and why does it taste different in his mouth, now.

When Artoria focuses on Merlin again, she just looks tired. “I cannot be what Mordred wants,” she says. “I barely know how; and it seems like he himself doesn’t understand what it is he wants from me, sometimes. Knight or heir, child or soldier... And I can solve none of that for — him — either. So _as things were_ is the best that can be offered, now. As for Lancelot...” She hesitates, shakes her head again. “He was the best of them. If I could be said to have favorites... no. But to speak of the betrayals between us will change things. Irrevocably.”

“They’ve already changed,” Merlin says simply. He tilts his head so his arms are a pillow, rather than a chinrest. “I’m well aware this is rich, coming from me! But it’s why I took so long. Why even now I want to hide from you. I can’t forget the things I saw happen. They changed _me_. So...”

What a disjointed little set of conclusions he’s laid out — Merlin can hardly bring himself to say anything else that follows. That he wishes he had not been so changed. That in fact, he spent several hundred years in a partially self-imposed prison because of it.

That being here, now, is yet another change, and this, too, terrifies him in its way.

Artoria is quiet for a long time. She regards Merlin for a while in this silence; and when she can look at him no longer she closes her eyes and turns her head aside. Ah, Merlin knows _that_ feeling well.

“I shall think about it,” she says at length, not yet turning back. “But, Merlin... you realize I truly won’t accept any more excuses from you.”

 _Whoops_. He sure did back himself into that one. Probably deserves it, though. Once again Merlin thinks back to Da Vinci, reminding him— perhaps better punishment is facing the consequences, after all, judging by how much everything here has _hurt_.

Hurt which, in some cases, cuts cleaner, and perhaps... perhaps fixably.

Merlin unstraddles himself from the chair, casually muffling his footsteps as he does, and goes over to her; and in full wild impropriety he leans down and drapes an embrace around his king’s shoulders from behind, resting his chin on top of her head. She twitches, but doesn’t throw him off, only settles her hands on his arm. “I missed you,” Merlin confides quietly. His throat closes up for a few moments about it anyway.

“And I, you.” There’s something like reassurance in the way she squeezes his arm before she tugs her way out of the embrace, standing up. She turns to face him — blinks in surprise, raises a hand to her face to pat her cheek. “Merlin, you...”

“Oh, not _again_ ,” Merlin complains. He’s disappointed, but not surprised, to find traceries of dampness when he mirrors her gesture with his own face. A quick couple of sleeve-swipes gets rid of the problem. “It’s allergies, you know.”

“What could you possibly be allergic to here?” she wants to know.

“Emotions,” Merlin says cheerfully. “All these heavy ones make me sneezy.”

His king exhales with barely-suppressed laughter, even as she retrieves her sword and unlocks the door. “If I tell you not to eat them, will you listen?”

“I am wholly indiscriminate in my appetites,” Merlin says, trailing her out of sheer habit. “You might as well try to take food away from Cavall. Hey, are we going _back_ to the cafeteria?”

“Certainly I am,” she says over her shoulder, feet set on the path and boots ringing metal on Chaldea hall-floors. “You are free to follow, or not, as you choose, so long as you come when I need you.”

Merlin thinks about a room full of people, especially knights, and winces; it rubs like rough cloth across a raw wound. “Not... today, I think,” he says, since he’s offered the choice. “But I’ll see you that far, and join you another time.”

“Very well.” There is something perhaps a little soft in the way she smiles back at him. Neither of them mention it at all. “I do not think you will be able to get out of poker nights for very long, but I am not often there myself.”

Ah, the division of king and knights. They break bread together, and fight as comrades, but the king is not necessarily one of them, to be among them when leisure is on the table. Merlin knows well it stemmed first from the necessity of keeping Artoria’s gender a secret, but later...

That aspect is a mess he doesn’t even have the space to begin approaching, if it even needs approaching. “Perhaps sometime you will be,” Merlin says lightly, and she murmurs a noncommittal agreement; and the rest of their walk is quiet, and easier than it was.

Merlin peels off without a farewell, only an offered bow received with a regal nod. His pace quickens as soon as he’s out of sight of his king — fleeing is too ingrained a habit, by this point, for him to linger so very long. However, the closets of Chaldea are rapidly becoming less than safe, judging by the fact that no fewer than two of the knights of the Round Table have surprised him in them.

By this point, too, Bedivere will probably not find it vital to keep his mouth shut about things Merlin’s been up to, and places he’s been found. Merlin will have to consider that all closets that aren’t Romani’s are no longer safe, and abandon his plans for the little closet-fortress Mordred had surprised him in. Ah, well, it was fun while it lasted.

He realizes it late, but his feet are taking him toward Da Vinci’s workshop. Merlin hesitates when he does process that, but— oh, well, she’s probably been watching any number of things on camera, voyeur that she is. Or Chaldea maintenance work or personal projects, in the off chance that she is not making Merlin’s drama the center of her attention, which Merlin guesses is also an option, if an unlikely one.

Without illusion, then, Merlin waltzes into Da Vinci’s workshop. She’s nominally sitting at the computer, but bent over something that glows faintly rather than paying attention to anything on the screen, and she raises a finger in his direction, _wait_ , instead of addressing him.

That, too, is fine. Merlin picks out a comfy corner with a minimum of unidentifiable gadgets stored in it and plonks himself down, crossing his legs under him and folding his arms into his sleeves. Yes, that’s decidedly more comfortable.

No, he is not examining why he’s comfortable in Da Vinci’s workshop, either.

Da Vinci finishes — whatever shiny thing she’s messing with — and only then unfolds herself to come eyeball Merlin with a distinctly superior tilt of her chin. “You’ve had an interesting morning, haven’t you?”

Merlin leans back against something that digs into his shoulder and sticks his tongue out at her for a moment, as carefree as he’s capable of being. “I knew you were watching me. Stalker.”

She half-bows, sweeping something ironic with her free hand. “You’re lucky I’ve been keeping tabs on you! But, don’t worry. Cameras in rooms are a pretty significant privacy violation. I have seen almost nothing intimate, one way or another.”

He supposes he should thank her, for one thing or another. “You pointed it out to Romani when Mordred came calling, too,” he says. “Even if I solved the problem myself, I appreciate the thought! Mordred’s not what you’d call predictable.”

“I hear it’s easier to date people if you’re in one piece.” Da Vinci hunkers down next to him, giving him a conspiratorial sort of a look. “...And not hiding in a closet.”

Merlin huffs with some mild exasperation. “Well, too many people know to look in them _now_. I’m going to have to get more creative.”

“You know what would really defy people’s expectations,” she says. “Showing up where there are other people, on purpose, and being social.” The wink tells him she knows how ridiculously transparent she’s being.

Still...

“You never know,” Merlin says. “Stranger things have been known to happen.”

“Oh?” Da Vinci raises eyebrows at him, but Merlin doesn’t elaborate. Once the quiet stretches out long enough to be awkward, she shrugs lightly. “You’ll just have to cope with friendship and support until then! Now, can I help you with something? Inspiring as it is to see your face, I do have other things to do today.”

“Just let me hang out here for a bit,” Merlin says. “I need to check on a few dreams, and I’d rather not be rudely shaken out of it.”

He has invented this motivation wholesale, but it’s legitimate enough. Anyway, he sort of wonders what his weird, weird sheep is up to. He hasn’t been back to his own subconscious a lot since the rose nonsense. And he can do some all-purpose scrying when he’s done with that.

“You know,” Da Vinci says, “you could...” But whatever she’s about to say that he could, she stops herself — shakes her head — smiles at him, something small but almost blindingly vibrant. “Never mind. You are welcome to sit in this corner while you commit whatever subconscious shenanigans you mean to be up to! I shall discourage rude visitors. Other than yourself, of course.”

She reaches out to tap his nose before she gets up, leaving Merlin blinking bemused at her turned back, as if the nose-tap was a button that deactivated whatever argument he would have made about his own rudeness or lack thereof.

Oh, well. He supposes she _has_ been trying to say they’re friends. Merlin flips his hood over his head and slips himself into dreams, a well-worn transition long since easier than pure sleep.

Habit has him skipping through a nearby dream before his own — a few of the staff on the swing shift are asleep, seems like. Merlin hesitates there — twitches his fingers, smooths away some fiery edges that might be a bit too Chaldean for anyone’s tastes — finally drifts back toward the familiar siren-tug of his own dreams.

Procrastinating is an age-old tactic.

When he finally comes to something like solid ground, it’s all grass and rain again: the light gray of a drizzly sky, the intermittent drops that are never enough to quench anything but only provide inconvenient dampness, and green nearly as far as the eye can see. Nearly. Down the slope from Merlin is the village he’s accustomed to, this snapshot of Britain in one moment or another.

Same old, same old. Nothing for it but to head down, since he won’t get anywhere else without going through. Merlin shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his robe and slouches his way down through everything that stands between him and the stone. People who never see him, buildings that never change.

He doesn’t know what he expected, honestly, except that a couple of wild crying breakdowns should be good for a change of scenery around here. Come _on_.

But there’s the stone, and there is the sword, and there is the dream of a girl, and the Merlin in the moments of choice. Ah, maybe Merlin’s envied this memory all along... this place where something could _still_ have changed, before all was carried through.

The other Merlin, the one who ostensibly keeps files around here, separates himself from the image as the memory and dream slip by. Merlin studies him closely, thoughtfully — he still has the same horns, the same jewelry he’d put on specifically to be annoying, but the fact of his presence isn’t the worry it was when he was doing unpredictable things.

So there’s that, Merlin guesses.

“Hey,” the incubus says, lifts a hand idly in a wave. “Nice accessory.”

Accessory— Merlin’s hand is at his chest, brushing flower petals, before he consciously intends it to be. He’d managed to get this far while ignoring the rose, mostly because it doesn’t ache until he _thinks_ about it. Now he rubs just under the spot, trying to assuage some of that feeling, before forcing his hand down. “Going to steal and hide anything else this time?”

The incubus rolls his eyes, expressive with the way his entire body mirrors it. “Only things you _want_ me to steal. You’re not in the habit of forgetting things for no reason, are you? No. When you repress things, it’s on purpose. Stop trying to repress things, and I’ll stop stealing them.”

This seems eminently logical, which means Merlin hates it immediately. “Maybe if you don’t steal them, they won’t _get_ repressed.”

“I don’t think it works that way,” the incubus says. “We’re not so separate as all that. If I don’t, something else is just going to happen to the things you want to press down. I’m just a convenient filing system, remember?”

There’s no heat in it, but Merlin feels vaguely bad anyway. Even if the incubus _is_ only a construct of his own mind, something to help organize fifteen hundred and more years of nonsense.

“...anyway,” he says. “Seen the sheep recently? I’m still trying to figure out what that shifty ungulate’s up to.”

“Oh yeah, that sheep.” The incubus comes around the stone and the sword, putting himself close by to Merlin. “Last I saw it was still up on the slope. Are you _sure_ that isn’t two sheep, by the way?”

“I—what?” Merlin takes a step back, frowning. “Why would it be two sheep?”

“Well,” the incubus says, in what passes for sensible tones from him. “I’ve only been poking around a _bit_ , but it didn’t always have horns, did it?”

“Nooooo,” Merlin says, dragging it out slow. “But it used to be younger, too. I think it just grew. It has the same collar it always did, I’d know if two different sheep were crunching around in here. Although there was a whole flock back when it first showed up! I wonder where those all got to.”

A thundering herd of sheep fails to appear. Both Merlin and the incubus glance around anyway, carrying each some deep suspicion of his own. “Mostly I think it’s just changed a _lot_ ,” the incubus says finally. “If I had to guess, it was love. Or something like it. But now your fun new accessory is definitely l—”

“ _Please_ stop saying the L word,” Merlin interrupts, wincing as he does. He knows it’s a giveaway of a weak spot, but he really can’t cope.

“...so I think it’s something else, now,” the incubus says. “When it grew horns, or whatever. If it’s not a different sheep, then it’s a grown-up one, sure, fine. Just think about it.”

Merlin covers his eyes with his hands for a moment, sighing. And also thinking. If he’d made a conscious choice not to carve out attachments, then that would have meant something. Same as when he internalized the rose, stupid as it was. The incubus has a point. By making those choices, Merlin effected changes in himself, even if he wasn’t seeing them at the time.

And, of course, everything in Merlin’s head is only ever Merlin, one way or another.

“Maybe,” he finally allows, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms before finally lowering his arms. Movement catches his eye on the other side of the stone — _ah_. “Speak of the trouble.”

“Oho.” The incubus turns as well, and the two of them observe the sheep, which has apparently heard itself spoken of. It looks, to Merlin’s eye, much the same as it did the last time he saw it; and while he is not a connoisseur of sheep, he _is_ pretty good at eyeballing dream constructs. Same bell that he made for it, same paired horns, same dark fleece. Hm.

He looks at it. It looks at him. And then lowers its head toward the stone to start...

“It’s licking the rock,” the incubus points out helpfully. “Do sheep do that?”

“Maybe for salt?” Merlin says, at a loss. “Or is that goats?”

“Ask a shepherd,” the incubus says. It feels a _bit_ mean. “We know a few, don’t we?”

Merlin, who would at this point rather eat a lemon than go and talk to David, circles around to see what the sheep is actually doing. Well— it’s licking. That much doesn’t change with a different point of view. Still licking the rock. It accepts Merlin sidling up beside it without changing much about its activity.

Wait, is that...

“Excuse me,” Merlin tells the sheep, and tugs it back. It doesn’t respond at first — he winds up having to get arms around its neck and pull with most of his strength to get it to fall back even a touch, and when he does it looks at him with significant reproach. That’s fine, though — the reproach is worth it to see what it was licking at.

A crack. The stone that’s held the Sword of Selection for years is cracked. And Merlin knows this stone, knows there was nothing of the sort in it. He reaches out to touch, runs his fingertips along the narrow jaggedness of it. Nothing mystical, nothing wrong or biting or even cantankerous.

Just... a crack.

“...Huh,” says the incubus from somewhere behind and above. “That’s new.”

Firmly, the sheep shoulders Merlin aside and goes back to licking.

That’s not a battle worth fighting. Leaving the sheep to it, Merlin falls back to a less fuzzy remove, and the incubus with him. There they regard each other, for once each as perplexed as the other. “It means something,” Merlin says finally.

“Sure,” the incubus says, “but what?”

Merlin shrugs. “Not sure yet,” he says, gently pressing at the petals of the rose. He thinks, though — maybe — well, how many times has he wished not to have to walk through this whole thing every time?

Why, though, is another issue entirely.

“Guess I’ll just sit and watch a sheep lick a rock, then,” the incubus says, in the long space where Merlin provides nothing else. “Riveting.”

“Let me know if it does anything weird,” Merlin says, and wanders off without further ado. He spends a while poking around the rest of the place — unsupervised, mercifully — but ultimately doesn’t find anything that’s changed significantly. Anything that shouldn’t have changed, anyway. Things past the sheep are often in flux, as dreams are such fluid things, but the very few fixed things remain fixed and the mutable things remain mutable, and in the end just about everything is where he left it.

Professionally diagnosing this whole thing as _weird shit_ , Merlin wakes himself up.

He sits in the corner of Da Vinci’s workshop for a while longer, idly scrying. He doesn’t really try for the future — it’s too much of a pain in his ass for how little value it returns, and anyway if something was about to go annihilating-the-human-race bad he’s pretty sure he’d be smacked upside the head with a vision. So instead he checks in on the corners of Chaldea, sees what chaos is or isn’t starting — there’s Ritsuka in the simulator with Leonidas, oh boy, and Mash and Romani seem like they’re wrapped up in something...

Merlin probably should spend more time with the girls. ...He’ll get to it, is his defense. He’s been very busy. How much pitiful procrastination can he get out of Romani for last night’s nonsense, he wonders. It’s probably good for _something,_ right?

He might actually accidentally doze off in that corner and then wake up with a crick in his neck, on account of Da Vinci’s gadget storage is not at _all_ ergonomic. How inconvenient.

When he finally does rouse himself all the way to getting up, it’s much later in the day. Da Vinci has been in and out for a few things, but the workshop itself has remained completely unsullied by random visitors. She’s here now, has a few IM windows visibly open as she works at some project or other with copper-headed tools. There are sparks. “I’m leaving you,” Merlin tells her as he passes behind her.

“I’m heartbroken,” she says absently, before the rest processes and she sits up straight. “Any chance you can be bribed to stay for dinner?”

“That depends how many other people are involved,” Merlin says at the door. It isn’t like he really has anywhere else to be, he was just starting to feel antsy.

“I was going to ask Ritsuka or Mash to bring something back from the cafeteria.” Da Vinci changes her tool from hand to hand, shakes it as if to dislodge something he can’t see from here. “Although if you’re _exceptionally_ averse, I suppose I could do that myself. I’d say dinner doesn’t have to be involved, but I don’t know how your needs about feeding yourself are at the moment...”

That’s _terribly_ considerate. She probably wants something. “You _just_ want me to stick around for the span of the meal?” Merlin says, dubious.

“Well, you’re out of your own head now, aren’t you?” she says. To her, this must sound very reasonable. “And I’ve missed you snipping at me over the internet, so I have to get that in somehow. If it costs me an errand, I’ll make the sacrifice.”

Doubt in no way leaves his mind. “I really expected you to be forcing me into more social situations,” Merlin says, putting the second-guessing out where she can address it. “ _Especially_ with all that harping on about how I should let Ritsuka summon me.” Or think she’d summoned him, either way.

Da Vinci regards him with an odd smile for a too-long moment before she speaks again. “Don’t think you’re getting out of those, but you _did_ come here of your own accord in the first place, I’ll remind you. For you, that’s practically a heartfelt declaration.”

Merlin scowls at her, but only as a show, and the expression splinters too fast for either of them to take it seriously. “If it’s only you, that’s fine,” he says grudgingly. Knowing that Da Vinci will take that as a similar declaration, and not caring enough to dissuade her. “The girls are going to be a bit much right now. I’d be forced to disappear into the night.”

“As one does, when forced to socialize,” Da Vinci says comfortably. “Let me finish this, then, and I’ll scavenge us up something from the paws of the mighty Cat. And then I want to pick your brain about some things...”

On that ominous note, she goes back to what she was doing, and Merlin peers over her shoulder until he’s swatted away. He scoots some few steps away genuinely laughing, and thereafter perches on one of the workbench stools he’d taken up his first time here.

True to her word, when Da Vinci reaches the point at which she seems satisfied enough to put this project down, she gets up to go and retrieve food — despite that it’s pretty much a social nicety for her, she stresses. Nobly Merlin resists the urge to read her IMs while she’s gone, or do his best impression of her to whoever she’s talking to.

All right, he peeks enough to know she’s bothering Holmes and Romani, but not beyond that. He’s _sure_ she’s recording the area. Or even watching him; there’s any number of jeweled things which might double as eyes.

Anyway, his name isn’t anywhere onscreen, so he doesn’t have to worry _too_ much.

When Da Vinci comes back, it’s with some sort of thick stew that hits an awful sort of nostalgia, but Merlin reasons it’s just food. There’s really nothing to get fussed over, and imagine the later teasing if he left just because food intimidated him with emotion. No.

So he sits there and eats his stew while Da Vinci pokes him. Figuratively. “—I may be sustained by Chaldea, more or less, but you routed right through our doctor, so you’d better be eating regularly,” Da Vinci says, spoon jabbed briefly at him.

Merlin knows about the summoning trick _she’s_ pulled, and opts not to mention it. It’s clever, really. “That man has magical circuits better than any mage of this era could hope for,” Merlin protests instead. “He pulled me out of Avalon by force and just _had an early night_.”

“That’s no excuse—” Da Vinci pauses. “...It might be an excuse. I’d assumed your summon was much like any other.”

Honestly, Merlin had assumed that was going to be the case at first, but apparently King Solomon doesn’t cut corners, even in his second or third life. “Not dead,” Merlin carols, for once smug about it. “So it was actually more energy efficient to just pull me out the front door, instead of creating a vessel and all the other hoops you’d normally have to jump through. Still more power than most modern mages could hope to _dream_ about! But, you know, he actually has that to throw around.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Da Vinci murmurs. “I should have guessed at that, really, but given how you managed things in Uruk...” It appears to occur to her that he got out of that query once before, and accordingly she gives him a gimlet eye over the stew. “You were _much_ more social in Uruk.”

“People didn’t _know_ me there,” Merlin points out. Sure, he’d moved into the Chaldea Embassy, and then he’d spent half his time making sure Ritsuka and Mash didn’t expect anything from him. “And I made a point of not getting to know them. You’ve been dead set on not letting me get away with that here. Since before I got here, even!” And if in Uruk, sometimes, he’d avoided fields that were too open or squares with too many people in them, for the strange dizzying contrast they made to his reality...

Well, Da Vinci doesn’t need to know about that. “I couldn’t have done a thing in Uruk if I’d been attached to the people,” Merlin says finally. Apparently he talks about things to people now. “I served King Gilgamesh, and did what I could to make sure Chaldea came through the night. Caring about the masses is what you have Ritsuka for, right?”

Da Vinci bestows the experience of a reproachful moue on him in between bites. “Certainly few people match her for the determination to save lives,” she says. “But, Merlin...”

Oh, he’s never liked sentences that she starts that way.

“I just find it interesting that you were serving a man who _was_ rather attached to all those people,” she muses aloud. “ _Can_ you outsource attachments?”

“Please tell King Gilgamesh this to his face,” Merlin says. “I’m pretty sure he’ll laugh. He’s attached to his people because they’re _his_ , not for their innate value as human beings.”

“Hmmm.” Da Vinci’s eyes narrow faintly.

Merlin senses danger. “Can I convince you to go back to talking about magic?” he says hopefully. “I have all _kinds_ of trivia.”

She considers this, visibly, spoon hovering in midair and dripping slowly back down into her bowl. “I suppose,” she says archly. “Although don’t make the mistake of thinking this conversation is finished! But I certainly have some thoughts I’d be interested in your take on.”

“Great,” Merlin says, and, “Lay them on me.”

Da Vinci grins, and, delightfully, Merlin isn’t alarmed in the slightest.


	13. my stars and my night

He stays there later than he means to — one thing leads to another, and they’re three layers deep in the art of magecraft by the time it occurs to either one of them that Romani might be overworking as they speak. Merlin takes that excuse to flee the scene, claiming to Da Vinci that he’ll handle things.

Romani’s down in his office in medical, despite the fact that the day’s getting on. Merlin supposes that he hasn’t been there the whole time — after all, he did see Romani with Mash earlier — so it might not be _strict_ overwork, but honestly, it’s the principle and the spirit of the thing.

And as he’s feeling exceptionally bold for about ten seconds, Merlin sweeps through medical to his office without putting on any illusions at all. “Guess what time it is!” he announces, barging in without other preamble.

“Is it time for you to drag me away from work?” Romani says, somewhere between wry and weary. He pushes himself back from the chair, looks up at Merlin with a tired smile.

“...well,” Merlin says, the wind rather taken from his sails. “Yes. Are you not even going to fight me on that?”

“Not even a little.” Romani locks the computer, picks up what looks like a new doctor’s overcoat, and stands. For a moment they’re very close to each other indeed, and Merlin’s faced with the discovery that they’re almost _precisely_ the same height, give or take some boots; then rational thinking catches up to him and he steps back, giving Romani the room to get out of the office.

That was _far_ too easy, actually. Merlin skips a few paces ahead of him through the passage that’s too narrow to walk side-by-side, then slows to match his pace once they’re out in the hall proper. “Hey,” he starts, putting the thought together as he does. “You wouldn’t have happened to be ... waiting to see how long it took to get someone to drag you away, would you?”

“Who, me?” But there’s a quicksilver impishness about the smile that Romani darts sideways. “I really was done, you know. And I had a break earlier in the day.”

“I know,” Merlin says. At least about the latter part. “But for someone who was done, you sure were doing a good impression of working! So here I am.”

“Here you are,” Romani agrees. It’s almost soft.

Merlin has the distinct impression he’s missed something.

The room doesn’t provide any clues — there’s not even a warm teapot or anything, Romani probably actually has been in his office all along. Merlin shrugs off whatever emotional cue he missed and fills the kettle to boil. He lets Romani handle the tea part, though, under the assumption that it’s entirely possible Fou is hiding out in the drawer. Or something.

“Long day?” Romani asks neutrally, somewhere through the tea dance. The tone is very much _trying not to ask_.

“Exceptionally,” Merlin says, and heaves a great sigh. “Do you _know_ how complicated human emotion is?”

“Intimately.” Romani’s wry smile is audible in his voice. He moves around the kotatsu with the sort of grace that’s terribly hard to look away from, something thoughtlessly self-possessed. Merlin’s gaze tracks him involuntarily. “Do you feel any better?”

Merlin measures it, thinks about it. His heart still aches when he thinks about certain things, which he discovers by running his thoughts near said certain things and wincing. And, annoyingly, he still hasn’t talked to Gawain at all, which means he has at least one more weird conversation in his future, even if all the hardest ones done. But, all told:

There is, if he’s grudgingly honest, a little more lightness to the things that bear down across his shoulders. “Maybe,” Merlin says, and plonks down on the cushion next to the kotatsu, intending to cozy up.

“ _Fou_ ,” says the kotatsu. Merlin freezes with one leg half-under and brushing fur. He’d _thought_ he’d seen rather too little of the beastie lately.

Well, no, he hadn’t thought that before, but he sure is thinking it now.

“No mauling, Fou,” Romani says serenely.

The kotatsu trills something that may or may not be agreement.

As Romani finishes with the tea and sets up his laptop, Fou climbs into Merlin’s lap, hunkering down in the space between table and leg to make threatening biscuits on Merlin’s thigh. Again. How has this become a thing. “If you’re going to eat me, could you at least get it over with?” Merlin says to the fluff.

There is a sound somewhere between a purr and a leafblower. Merlin rubs at the bridge of his nose, then leans back on his hands. He’s learned his lesson about trying to pet. “Guess I’m stuck,” he says, to Romani. “You have a captive audience!”

Romani, bringing up the series they’d been partially through the night before, pauses halfway. “If it’s _that_ bad...” he starts.

“No, no,” Merlin says hastily. “I just mean it’s nice to be able to move my legs.”

“Hm.” Romani levels him with a considering look, then straightens up. “Right back.” He collects pajamas, disappears into the bathroom.

Merlin looks down at Fou. Fou burbles. “What do you _want_?” Merlin asks, with some exasperation. “I’m not sorry. Maybe I was rude about it, but this was the best place for you.”

Little kneading paws shift weight. Pinpricks flex and retract. Merlin can’t extract meaning from this. “Ah, we don’t understand each other the same way, any more, do we?” he says reflectively. “Even knowing why, it’s inconvenient.”

“Kyuu.” A firm note, something unequivocal.

Old, old habit, all shaken up in him, has Merlin reaching to pet before he remembers that’s a bad idea and leans back on his hands again. “Well,” he says. “Maybe I’m sorry for how we left things, and how I went about it. Since I’m making the rounds squaring with people, and all. But that’s the best you’re getting. Mash was the right person for you.”

Even if, technically, Merlin had not seen that specifically.

“Fouuuuuu,” floats up contemplatively. The sound still doesn’t mean anything to Merlin, not like it once might have, but there aren’t any more pinpricks in his thigh. At least for the moment. Merlin still prefers not to try to pet.

Romani comes back with timing that’s a bit too convenient for Merlin’s liking, but it’s not like he was having a deeply sincere conversation with a cat or anything. “We may as well start for now,” Romani says, perhaps a tiny bit apologetically, “and if you can’t get up when you need to later, I’ll help with him, but he’ll probably go back to Mash before too long.”

The kotatsu does some more thoughtful kitty murbling. Merlin shrugs up at Romani, and delicately pats the floor next to him. “Well, if I can’t move around, I’m going to need something to lean on,” he says, and bats his eyelashes for good measure.

He doesn’t think he’s imagining the way Romani’s face heats, nor the pause before a response. “Fine, fine,” Romani says. He dims the lights a touch, then drags the cushion around from the next side and sits down next to Merlin. “It’s only fair.”

Even not quite touching, Merlin swears he can feel Romani’s warmth along that side. He couldn’t say how any of the next episode goes at all, frankly, too busy trying not to cave _immediately_ to the desire to lean.

He gives in before the episode is out, but Romani’s very accommodating about letting Merlin lean on his shoulder, so Merlin figures the sacrifice of dignity, such as it is, is probably worth it.

They pause once for tea refills — once to let Fou out when he gets bored of psychologically terrorizing Merlin and scratches at the door to be let out — once when Merlin starts laughing over the _stupidest_ joke on the show and can’t stop for at least five minutes, like something’s been knocked loose inside him and this is what happens when you flood emotional pipes. Romani looks appropriately concerned through the whole thing, pats Merlin’s back gingerly and checks him over in some attempt to make sure he’s breathing.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Merlin manages eventually, wheezing on it. The joke wasn’t even that _good,_ which is insult to injury. “Press play, we can finish this one before bed.”

“If you say so,” Romani says dubiously. His concerned face is very close. Merlin has stupid wild thoughts for several seconds before the soap opera takes over.

More than anything, Merlin thinks as he’s finally getting ready for bed, it’s just _nice_. Uncomplicated, at least for the most part. How long’s it been, since he managed to put heavier things down and just experience something nice for a bit?

Well, obviously now that he’s thinking about them, all the things to be unhappy about are back in his awareness, but it _was_ a nice evening. And it _has_ been a long time. And Merlin’s not even sure where to ascribe all the blame for the niceness.

Probably it starts with Da Vinci. _Definitely_ Romani needs some blame.

“I wanted to thank you,” Merlin says, when the lights are dark and they’ve slipped into bed beside each other. So many things are easier in the dark. “For last night.”

“Last night?” Romani rearranges on the pillow to get a better look at him. “That is— obviously I remember what happened last night. Just...”

In temporary silence Merlin studies the fall of shadows across Romani’s face and wants something he can’t name. “Just what?” he prompts eventually.

“Just that... it didn’t feel like something worth thanks,” Romani says. He lifts a hand to rub across his face; he sounds sheepish, a far cry from the firm almost-regal tones that had gone right through Merlin. “Just the only thing I _could_ do.”

Emboldened for a breath or two, Merlin snags that hand and squeezes gently. Ah, this man. He really doesn’t have a grasp on how far _most_ people are willing to go, does he? Only thinks that self-sacrifice and kindness are the obvious things to do, the only things to do. Sure, Merlin had to encourage him to tell the truth... but for Mash, he suspects, Romani would always have wound up where he wound up.

Heroes. Merlin shakes his head. “How about you just take it as ‘it was helpful,’ then. ...Because it was.” The fact of holding Romani’s hand catches up to his conscious decision-making process; Merlin lets go as if burned.

“All right,” Romani says, half-laughing over it. “I’m... glad to have helped. Truly. In whatever form.”

“It’s settled, then.” Merlin burrows down into blankets, too self-conscious now to reach for the embrace there was last night, even as he craves the warmth just within reach. “But maybe spare me the meaningful life advice for a week or two.”

“I’m not sure if I can promise that,” Romani says. His voice is muffled through the covers, but there’s the soft weight of his touch at Merlin’s shoulder despite the barrier. “I’ll try, though. You’ve... really been making an effort, haven’t you?”

“Lies,” Merlin says stubbornly. “Lies and slander.”

There’s soft laughter. “It’s the blankets,” Romani says, a moment later. “They make it impossible to take you seriously.”

Resigned, Merlin wiggles at least his head free of entrapment, intending to make some other defense about how he is absolutely not making an effort at all, and all of these thoughts and emotions are happening to him against his will, oh how awful! But Romani’s face is— right there, and there’s all that unexpected closeness again, and all of the words go out of Merlin’s mouth with no sound.

His smile makes Merlin’s chest hurt.

“Merlin?”

 _Focus_. “I am neither serious nor diligent,” Merlin announces grandly, and plonks his head down on the pillow so he can squeeze his eyes shut without it looking weird. “Good _night_.”

“...all right,” Romani says at length. This time, Merlin feels it for sure, when he strokes Merlin’s hair; but still, Merlin pretends not to notice. “Good night, Merlin.”

Merlin waits for a long time, markedly not sleeping, heart still terribly achy-fast-warm beneath his ribs. It doesn’t want to calm, and is being _exceptionally_ rude for a vital organ. Come on.

Eventually Merlin chances opening his eyes — oh, good, Romani’s asleep, or at least pretending to be. That’s better. It means Merlin can just watch him for a while, thoughts roaming rampant-restless around the subjects of truth and kindness and attachment, and not really coming up with anything at all, only the nebulous conclusion that in this moment, Merlin can’t think of somewhere else he’d prefer to be.

When he finally drifts off, he’s still watching Romani from under his lashes, contented with the presence of a man hauled back from the end by the dreams and love of Chaldea.

Which Merlin _guesses_ he’s part of, now.

Ugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's it! so, uh, that wordcount is definitely part of why this took so long. 
> 
> chapter titles taken with some revisions from lyrics to _Blood and Whiskey_ and _Lost in the Cosmos_ , both by the Mechanisms. 
> 
> hope you had fun! More fun than Merlin did. We can't promise anything about when the next work will show, but it's in progress and we're having way too much fun with making people feel things to stop at any point in the near future.
> 
> I'm also always happy to talk about creative choices I made and why I made them. 
> 
> Take care, all.


End file.
